


Testimony

by reluctantabandon



Series: The Testimonial Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Angst, Complete, Diary/Journal, Fingering, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Pining, Sherlock says awful things, Smut, Stream of Consciousness, UST, autoerotic journal keeping, emotionallystunted!Sherlock, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 32,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps a journal.  It's rather private.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: 1 March

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely unabashed smut, with a sort-of casefic thrown in for afters. Read at your own risk!
> 
> This is also a WIP. I solemnly swear to finish it in a timely fashion.
> 
> I must give a super-huge THANK YOU to the folks at #antidiogenes, especially to tartanfics and breathedout for encouragement and to lestradesexwife, a_xmasmurder, Letha, and Evith Winter Grey (wintergrey) for an enthusiastic and lightning-fast beta! And to Nichellen, who arrived belatedly but did yeoperson duty as the best whip-hand ever.
> 
> My beloved Kryptaria also chided me gently about chapter summaries and notes and the way they show up in eReaders and while reading the entire work; therefore, these have been deleted, and I will have to content myself with loving my betas up here and in the end notes.
> 
> As always, the characters herein belong not to me but to the immortal ACD and to our heroes Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.

March 1

As is undoubtedly obvious, I have decided to keep a journal.  
I am not sure if I want you to read it or burn it.


	2. 1 March (entry 2)

I fucked myself up against the side of the bed today and pretended it was you. The bed was high enough that when I lay over onto my stomach, I had to rise up onto my tiptoes. By the time I bent over all the way, I was breathless, and the feel of my face against the coverlet was almost too much already. I wasn't naked; I had pulled my trousers and pants down just enough, just down over my arse and to the tops of my thighs, so I couldn't spread them too far apart. My shirt seemed tighter than usual, and I could feel the line of buttons like hot little fingertips along my chest and belly. My jacket restricted my movements, especially my shoulders, so I had a hard time reaching around and down, but I didn’t take it off. I had everything ready--lube, dildo, flannel-- and so when I lay down and felt my arse naked in the air I couldn't help but moan a little, since all I needed was there. Everything but you.

I shoved my toes against the floor, felt the strain in my calves and thighs as I lifted a little bit more. I could see my fingers shaking; my hands were shaking as I poured out some lube. I had to bring my hands up closer to my face because it seemed as if my vision had darkened; I could feel my entire body shaking in slow spasms, that quiver of desire. Shaking, shaking; so unlike me, so out of control. I wanted you so badly my mind was entirely consumed by it right at that moment. I had to focus, however; I dragged my shaking hand down to my anus, and sucked in a breath as I felt the first cold touch of the lube. Just as if you'd put your finger there. My anus puckered and flexed, wanting, as if it had a mind of its own; absurd, of course, but it certainly had an automatic reaction to that feeling, the feeling of perhaps your finger gentle at my entrance. I pushed in, slowly, just the tip, needing the stretch; I imagined your clever fingers there, the hands that care and protect so beautifully, now ruthless in their penetration of my defenses. Oh god. That stretch, that first slight burn, I felt it so intensely, and I rubbed my face against the rough fabric of the comforter to provide some distraction. The ache in my legs was growing, a warm, soothing pain, climbing the backs of my legs and hiding in the shadows behind my knees. I couldn't suppress a moan that time as I pushed my finger further, past the first sphincter, into my own warmth. Feel how hot I am, I thought; I imagined your breath catching as you slid your wet finger deeper. You heard my answering gasp, moan, cry. Oh god. I was so close already, just from this small touch and from thinking about your hands, your breath against me. I could feel my belt digging in to my hips; the zipper of my trousers was pressing into the front of either thigh, and my cock was trapped under me, pressing against the top of the bed, rubbing against the rough texture of the spread. I didn't know at that point whether I was even going to last long enough to use the dildo; but I wanted to; I wanted to. I wanted to pretend you were behind me now, your finger knuckle-deep in my hole, spreading me open wider for you. (What would you say right now, if you were here? If you had been there, watching, feeling, or if you found this notebook and read this account? I want to hear what you have to say. Perhaps I will leave this lying on the coffee table, or near your laptop someday, for your curious hands to discover.) My fingers, your fingers; such a delicious substitution, such agonizing lack. I pushed another finger in, ignoring the burn this time, well, reveling in it, really, as I shoved harder, my hips bucking and twisting as I tried to get leverage, angle, thrust just exactly right. Oh, yes. That spark behind my eyelids; that thready lightning through my veins; I found my own prostate. Three fingers, now, I thought, thinking of you, you behind me, whispering darkly in my ear, your voice harsh and beating on my eardrums like sand; I thrust harder, deeper, curling my fingers, thought of your chest against my back, sweat-slick and sliding, and your fine narrow hands with their blunt fingers taking me. I felt my own erection slide brutal, hot, against the coverlet, the head slippery with semen but the length riding rough against rough fabric, and I pressed up and down and back, circling my hips, wanting. Thought of you. Like always. And, thinking of you, I came, crying your name, softly, softly, biting my words into the thick cloth, sobbing my orgasm, my hole clenching around three fingers, and I didn’t even get to use the dildo and imagine it was you.


	3. 3 March

I didn’t mean it.

I said something that I regret. I didn’t mean to say it, but I said it, it just came out of my mouth like premature ejaculate, I couldn’t stop it, and the look on your face. Hurt. Suddenly shuttered. And I wanted to come close, and cradle your face in my hands, and kiss you, and murmur to you that I didn’t mean it, not a word, and I was sorry. But.

We are not that way.

We do not operate in that fashion.

And it terrifies me that I want it.

What should I want with that? Closeness? Intimacy? It’s almost laughable. And yet, when I see you, when I hear your step on the stair or your voice from the kitchen, my heart clenches and I know now what all the stupid inane songs and stories are about.

I should have been immune. I thought I was immune. I thought I had excised that part of myself long ago. Deleted it.

It’s like a phantom pain, almost, the pain after the loss of a limb; only my limb, like the sea star, has begun regenerating. I believe I had more than a quarter of my heart left when you came (the sea star, an echinoderm, can regenerate itself from as little as one quarter its body mass), but I fear it has completely regenerated now. I am afraid, again, that I may lose it all.

And so I live with this fear. I don’t speak it. I don’t show it. I am impassive, as always. I show my cold face to you, to the world, I use sarcasm and biting cold and you shutter your face and look away when I want to hold you and cry that it is all my fault.

I don’t like it.


	4. 6 March-8 March

6 March

 

You are brilliant.

You are fantastic.

You are amazing.

But how can I tell you?

 

7 March

 

I hate this. I feel like a pubescent teenager, mooning around after you with starry eyes and a face like a dead mackerel. You can’t be interested in me. I’m awkward and all pokey angles and brushoffs and “spectacularly ignorant” when it comes to simple human interaction. I don’t understand what it is I’m meant to DO half the time; I speak, you look hurt or confused or resigned, and I curse myself inside for being so obtuse. I want to know; I want to, oh dammit, I want to be what you want. And that is just not what I do.

 

8 March

 

John.

I say your name a thousand times a day, and each time I caress it with my mouth, let it slide slippery-rich off my tongue, let it fall from my lips like the rarest of jewels.

I adore your name.

So simple, it seems; like you: outwardly placid, bland, unremarkable, common. None of those words in any wild stretch of the imagination applies to you. Magically, you transform this name, one given to nearly ten in every hundred male children in Britain and Wales, and make it one that suits only you. I will never think of anyone else but you when I hear your name; this can make it slightly awkward at crime scenes and at New Scotland Yard, since there are so many others who merely aspire to the luminance your name reflects. I battle annoyance when another human being presumes to don the mantle of such gentle light. This presents a difficulty, since I cannot reveal my irritation; I try to repress it, and it often comes out in unfortunate short temper with witnesses. Must remember to breathe.


	5. 10 March

Ha. “Breathing is boring,” I said once, and you chuckled. Not today. Not after Lestrade pulled you out of the Limehouse Basin you weren’t. You were choking and gasping and I felt as if all the air had been pushed from my lungs and I couldn’t pull in any more, I ran to you and you were pale and wet and choking and the paramedics pushed me out of the way—gently, but it was still too hard, and too far, and I couldn’t see your eyes as you lay on the ground with your face turned away and they wouldn’t let me near you. I wanted to breathe for you, I wanted to fill your lungs with my air, my body’s air that wasn’t too humid and damp and choking but just right for you but they wouldn’t let me get close, they kept me away, and then—

Then Lestrade looked up and saw me, there at the edge of the whirlwind around you, and he shouted and pushed and pulled me in so I could be next to you. I don’t think I want to know now what he saw in my face.

You are fine. You are fine. I tell this to myself. You didn’t even have to stay overnight in hospital; you came home with me in the cab to Baker Street, only slightly pale and with a slight smile that said you were uncomfortable but you were fine, and it was all fine and although our case is resolved I still can’t seem to go to sleep.


	6. 11 March

GOD DAMNED MOTHER FUCKING CUNT ARSE SHIT

FUCKING COCKSUCKING ARSEBITE 

CRAP SHIT FUCK I’ve started to repeat myself. Dull. I will stop now.

Invective such as this has never been my strong point. However, I feel the need tonight (this morning?) to burn these words onto the page.  
I’ve done it again.

Fucking shit, bloody buggering hell.

Your face was so hurt, your look of rejection so profound, I think my heart stopped for a moment. You turned without speaking and walked away. I saw you hail a cab and get in. I haven’t seen you since. It’s been over ten hours (ten hours twenty-four minutes thirty-seven-eight-nine seconds). I feel as if I’ve broken something precious. I have.

I think back on what I said to make you go.

We were at a crime scene (of course, can’t giggle it’s a crime scene, can’t think of when crime scenes had ever before you been truly fun); Lestrade was shouting at his minions, Anderson was being stroppy about letting us through, Donovan was actually trying to intercede for us for once; I remember thinking the crime must have been a bad one if she wanted me there. We strode in under the tape, your cheeks flushed with excitement and a bit from the chill, so lovely. I said it absently, an aside almost, a response to something you’d said about the placement of the body – John, why do you bother coming at all if you’re going to say such ludicrous things – I said it, and again it was almost involuntary – almost – and it came out of me like cold acid, bitter vitriol, only such an aside, such a throwaway comment, and your face turned white, your jaw clenched and you turned and walked away.

I never quite knew what the phrase “died a little inside” meant until today.


	7. 11 March (entry 2)

Now what do I do?

I must apologize, of course. When I really want to put my face in your lap and sob in anguish, I must be stiff and polite and tender you a proper apology. “Apologies,” I could say, as Mycroft does, in his stiff voice with his stiff face so unused to the shape of the word. That will not be enough. I feel the need to grovel, to abase myself, to wear sackcloth torn jagged and smear myself with ashes, beating my breast because I have hurt my best friend.

Because you are – my best friend. My only friend. And if I weren’t so terrified, so ashamed, so convinced of rejection, I would lay my heart before you still beating and ask you to take it. Please, take it. It has been yours this long while.


	8. 12 March

You are home now. I had left the door of my room open a crack to hear your key in the door, and leapt to close it silently as you mounted the stairs. I stayed breathless on this side, listening to your familiar rhythms; you climbed the seventeen steps quietly, avoiding the squeaky one as we do late at night (what time was it when you came home? Twelve forty-seven.), and heard you close the flat door gently, hang up your coat, and move softly into the kitchen. You didn’t make tea; just got yourself a glass of water and stood there in silence for a long time. You placed your glass in the sink. You sighed, just a breathy exhale. I heard your steps drag weary up the stairs to your bedroom. I stopped listening then.

I climbed into my own bed, pulled the covers up over my head. I didn’t want to think about you upstairs, you probably still stinging from my careless ugly words, and I didn’t want to think of me down here alone in my bed wanting so badly to be with you. I don’t understand this. I know that today I crossed some sort of line, a trip wire that set off the explosion of your departure. And yet, here you are, back in the flat, upstairs – you either have made some kind of peace with my comment, or you had no success finding another place to stay. I believe you would have stayed in a hotel rather than coming back to Baker Street if you had really wanted to keep your distance. So what is it that drew you back here? The opportunity to confront me in the morning, after sleep? The thought of spending money on drinks, a room, a woman? My love for you, that you could feel from all those city streets away, drawing you home? No- not the latter; that, you have no knowledge of. However, although you tend to avoid confrontation when possible, opting for defusing and conciliation, you do not back down when pressed, and your long absence yesterday (today) is probably one of introspection and decision. I admit that the thought of facing your anger in the morning makes me nervous. And I know that somehow I caused your anger, and made your heart sink and your jawline tighten and your eyes turn sad, but I don’t know where the line is, and I need you to help me find it and understand. Because I don’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. And if I could, I would take back my hurtful, wrong words, eat them like shards of glass, absorb them back into myself and smooth the surface of your face into a smile again.


	9. 12 March (entry 2)

That  


was not good


	10. 12 March (entry 3)

~~John~~

~~John~~

John

This is ridiculous. I could write your name over and over and never get anywhere. What I want to do here is to set down the events of this morning and try to puzzle through them. But I am feeling restless and anxious and my mind will not settle; I keep thinking about cold cases at the Yard, especially the one with the tape dispenser, and of the spine of my first anatomy book under the tips of my fingers, and of the vibration of my violin pressed close, and of the blue flare of magnesium when it hits air – I need nicotine patches. I need an experiment. I need distraction.

I need you humming under your breath as you make tea. I need you clearing your throat and rustling your paper at the table in the early morning. I need the sunlight on your hair. I need the smile in your eyes that you save for when you say “Brilliant!” or “Fantastic!”

I have the feeling that I won’t be seeing that smile anytime soon.

I waited until you had your first cup of tea in hand before I emerged from my room this morning. I felt tentative and unsure; I despise that feeling, so I dressed extra carefully, suit and dove-grey shirt, immaculate. Your eyes sharpened as you saw me, making your own deductions about why I was dressed at 9 in the morning (you: no surgery today, jeans, favorite oatmeal jumper, soft t-shirt, old loafers) when we had no case on. Your eyes again darted toward me, then away; your lips compressed in some kind of displeasure, I’m not quite sure which kind. I smiled a bit but you didn’t see; you had already turned your back.

“Tea?” you asked, tersely, as you picked up the kettle and went over to the sink.

“Yes, please,” I responded, and you froze for a moment, then resumed your movement toward the tap. I know why; I so seldom say please, and thank you, and it startles and unnerves you when I do, because you think I want something or I’ve done something and I’m trying to deflect or compensate. And I suppose I do that, as I did it then, trying to be nice for you because you like nice, even though I’m not habitually considerate.

Moments passed. We said nothing. The kettle boiled.

You poured the tea.

I sat at the table.

“Thank you,” I said as you placed the mug on the surface. Your face – it was so shuttered, where it’s usually so open. You were shutting down, shutting me out, because of what I’d said. You are so sensitive! There is such sensibility in you! How do I circumvent it? How do I navigate it, when this landscape of emotion has been unavailable to me for most of my adult life? I am so awkward with expression that is not logic, so bewildered by the natural machinations of emotion.

“John,” I said tentatively, this morning, while sitting at the table not drinking the tea you’d just made me.

“Sherlock, just…don’t.” Your face was stone. “Don’t try to apologize. I know you don’t mean it, and it’s infuriating, and I feel as if you’re faking it, you condescending wanker, it makes me want to punch you in the face, and I can’t stand it. So just, don’t.”

I didn’t know what to say.

I didn’t know how to reply.

I felt my insides shaking, and my outsides solidifying, so although I felt as if I was crumbling inside, you saw only my glacial exterior. Perfect. Stolid. Immune, again, to any reaching out, to any permutations of emotion.

“Fine.” I said. “Good.” I said. And I didn’t mean either.

You rose, put your teacup in the sink, put on your jacket, and left.


	11. 12 March (entry 4)

This is ridiculous! I move around the flat, trying not to be disturbed and distressed by you, and yet you are always here, even when you are not. Your presence is a constant irritant (moving through the kitchen, the bathroom, the lounge), making me unsure of how I should react, how I should move and respond to your movements. Here, you move to your room, upstairs; you come down again, make tea, depart. How should I react? Should I seem to care? Or should I keep my aloof pose on the sofa, hands beneath my chin, like the oracle of Delphi with indecision an integral component. I don’t understand. How can I? Human emotion is a closed book to me, such a paradigm as a “normal” relationship between flatmates I don’t even pretend to understand. Yet I persevere; WE persevere, John, my beloved, my own, with my heart laid bare I will call to you, yearning, until you reply Yea or Nay. Because I don’t think I can wait another day beneath your midnight gaze, your eyes like the reflection of the night sky, until I confess that I love you, I love you, and I will never stop loving you.


	12. 12 March (entry 5)

John.

John.

John.

I will say it until I die. John, your name to me is breath, and life, and blood. Do not, please, I pray you, do not make me relinquish it as my battle cry; do not make me turn from you because you do not love me. John, please. Please.


	13. 13 March

I am on my bed again.

Without you.

Yearning. Wanting.

I am ready for you, for you, John, so ready.

I abase myself, here; I am thoroughly humiliated, in this state to which no other has ever reduced me.

I am on my knees, arse high in the air, shoulders pressed to the coverlet; my head is turned to one side, though my face is pressed to the bedclothes in wanting you.

I have my hands, my toys, my bottle of lubricant, ready.

Will I make it this time? Will I be able to come, pretending that you are inside me, or will I come too quickly, just imagining your voice, your hands? In what I imagine is your favorite pose, just waiting, wanting. What will you do? Will you take me, breathlessly, I so often do, oh, I do, imagine you beneath me, behind me, your hands so masterful and gentle. Oh. I feel you, there, as I stroke my own hands and fingers over my body. I can only feel you, there, where I felt my own hands before; I feel your strong, capable fingers gliding lightly over my skin, and I shiver under your gentle touch. Here I am, presented for you, in what I imagine is your favorite pose, yours completely; will you encompass me in your love? Will you be clinical, distant, giving me deep pleasure while forsaking your own? Or will you abandon yourself to me, wanting, needing, as much as I want and need you? I can only imagine, and it is such scenes that fuel my imagination, that make me keen and yearn for you as I writhe and arch in my masturbatory fantasies. I have no hope, now, that you might reciprocate.

I lay on the bed, again. My arse was in the air, presented, and my face, as I noted earlier, was pressed against the coverlet. I wanted you so badly, I wanted to hear your voice, to feel your hands on my body, against my skin. I imagined you directing me, compelling me, with your voice so stern and so gentle at once. So commanding. So easily beguiling me to do what you wanted. Oh. I wanted so badly to do what you desired. So I imagined what you might like.

Sherlock, on your knees. Put your head down. Yes, that’s right. Put that gorgeous arse up in the air. Let me see you. Yes. Hands under your head. That’s it, love, just there. Let me look at you. Oh, you are gorgeous, just gorgeous, all hot and tight, I’m sure, and so ready for me. I want you to show me how ready you are, Sherlock, let me see how much you want me.

Yes, John. Yes. How much I want you. How ready I am for you. How close I am.

I ready myself for you: my fingers, so deft, circle my tight hole, and I press in, thinking of you again. Yes. Remember how it feels. How it feels to suddenly surrender, to be wholly under your influence, your command. How my fingers feel breaching me, stretching, wanting more, wanting to feel your warmth, your hands. How lovely it is to just love you, just let myself love you completely, nothing between us but love. Oh. John.  


Sherlock. Let me see you. Yes. Your cock, straining, wanting, so ready, dripping, feeling so hot and slick for my hand. Your sweet hole, ready for me, opening so softly, tightly, to squeeze me and take me in, my lovely hard cock taking you, so full, so wanting, so hot and full and

Oh

Oh

Oh


	14. 14 March

I can’t do this any more.

I can’t pretend. I can’t live with you and pretend I don’t want you. I can’t see you every day and pretend that we are simply friends, flatmates. I cannot, John, I CANNOT. This pretense will drive me insane.

It may have already.


	15. 15 March

I paced the lounge, back and forth, back and forth. What restlessness compels me! What dark urges do I seek to rest my weary and troubled mind! What florid hyperbole addles my ridiculous brain at the moment! But I cannot, I cannot; I have promised you that I won’t use, and so I won’t. I will keep this promise to you, as I have kept all others: alone protects me. A magic trick. Lies.

Lies you never believed.

And that, that belief, is what keeps me alive now. You believed, John. Despite the evidence, despite scathing commentary and malicious sentiment, you believed. You fashioned a bulwark out of truth and trust, evidence and stubbornness, and you kept my memory alive when even my own memory of that time was beginning to fade.

And so I pace the floor, and reminisce, and brood over the methods that I used to get through that hurtful time, the time when I was without you. And I think that even now, you would not like to hear how I got through that time; even you, the soldier, the doctor, the warrior, would not condone the means I used to survive during that horrible, lonely hiatus from you. I avoid talking about it; I have changed the subject so many times that it’s becoming tedious to find another avenue of conversation. So here I am, convoluted, compelled, and so twisted with my need for you that I may never recover. God, I thought that three years without you was impossible; now, what will three months with you again bring? I need you, I know that now. I need your presence, your steady regard, in all ways; you are the only person on this earth who truly sees me, I think, and yet you accept me, even admire me for who and what I am. Have I irrevocably changed that? Have I, by dint of my unscrupulous tongue, managed to alienate forever the only person I will ever love?

If I believed in a God, I would be begging right now for absolution and forgiveness. And yet, some small guilty part of me believes that this emptiness is nothing more than I deserve.


	16. 15 March (entry 2)

I have decided.

I will grovel.

I will do whatever it takes to bring you back to me, although you never left.


	17. 15 March (entry 3)

You are in the flat, again. I wanted so badly to go to you when you arrived home, but I left you in peace. I knew you would not want to see me. I will go to bed, and I will pull the duvet up to my chin, and I will not sleep thinking about you.


	18. 15 March (entry 4)

Oh, John.

Your ability to astonish me is as manifest as ever.

Your immense heart. Your beautiful, wounded, sheltering, enfolding heart.

I am not deserving of the friendship you so willingly give. I am continually bewildered by your easy capacity for forgiveness. How do you tolerate my extreme polarity? How can you extend your hand to me, over and over, when all I seem to do is slap it away?

I say seem. I must SEEM to do these things; otherwise, my regard for you would be written obvious upon my face, I know. I, like you, can shutter my face away, can close my emotions into myself like a cell door clanging, alone with the gnawing Spartan fox of my love for you.

I did it, however. I made you understand that I was truly remorseful. I think you are the only person in the world for whom I can drop this curtain of falsity to show my true face. And you, John, you see me, you observe, you deduce, and you arrive at the proper conclusions every time.

(This is precisely why I am afraid that if you see my naked face, you will know.)

This time, I allowed you to see that the pain I had caused you was unacceptable to me; I may even have said those exact words.

It was early. You sat at the kitchen table, with tea, and toast with marmite. (Dressed for the surgery, cardigan, button-down shirt, tie.) You didn’t look at me as I entered the room. Again. (For you to not look at me causes me such anguish, John; I cannot express my need for your eyes on my face.) I was deliberately loud; I pulled out the other kitchen chair with a bang and a scrape and threw myself into it. Thump. Your eyes flickered, your lips compressed further, but you did not so much as glance at me. I placed my arms and hands on the table, just so, lacing my fingers together directly in your line of sight. You could not help but see.

I said, “I want to apologize, John.”

Your eyes closed, squinting a bit, like you do when you’re in pain or when I’ve said something you regard as particularly imperceptive. You huffed a little breath out between your lips, another sign of annoyance. You were frustrated with me; still angry, but the anger was overlaid with a veneer of calm and an itching layer of irritation.

“I know you believe I’m insincere in my apology, John,” I began, but I had to stop as your name left my tongue again and combined with your presence to make my brain do a small stuttering short circuit through the word-images I use for you – _honor courage duty bravery morality brightness serenity calm protection need desire lust passion love love love_ – I closed my eyes and just breathed for a second. I don’t even think you noticed that tiny hitch. I looked at you, and you looked back (your eyes on me, yes, at last, I felt bathed in your regard). You gave me that tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, the one you use when you’re dealing with something unpleasant but wanting to maintain a polite exterior. Please, I never want to see that look turned upon me again. “However, I am truly sorry, and I want you to know that I will try harder in the future to not be such an annoying prick.”

Your head picked up at that, and your laugh was unforced; you seemed surprised at it, as if you hadn’t heard yourself laugh in a while.

“Well, you got the annoying prick part right at least,” you said, and smiled a tiny bit. Were you rueful? Wry? Fond? Too early to tell. I carried on with my mission to beg your forgiveness. (I would—will—beg you for mercy—twice, John, or even more, with no hesitation or compunction.)  
“It seems to be something I’m rather good at,” I said, and you grinned. You grinned, John! Fireworks and flowers and long warm summer nights, with a lovely side of serial murder! I was so entranced by that grin I nearly forgot to continue. Fortunately, I recalled that I still had pleading to do.

“John, I need your help.”

“What, another case? Did Lestrade call?”

“No, John. I….” It suddenly became difficult for me to proceed. The words seemed to stick in my throat, and my carefully prepared speech seemed dull and pointless. “I need you to help me be …better.”

You looked at me, puzzled. “Be better?”

I swallowed again. My throat seemed unaccountably dry. I took a sip of tea (perfect, as always; how you do it is a regular miracle). “I.. that is, you—why is this so DIFFICULT?” I felt my frustration rise. “I would very much like you to… teach me to be nicer. To you. I would like to be less of a prat and more of a …friend. For you. To you.” I was babbling. I could feel my cheeks start to warm. I subsided into my chair and crossed my arms, looking at you from under my lashes.

You looked back at me, astonished. “Wait…wait just a minute. Are you actually saying you want me to teach you friendship skills? Are you serious?”

“YES, John, that’s exactly what I’m saying!” My voice sounded a bit petulant; not what I was going for. I breathed deeply. “I am having trouble with…boundaries. I need someone –I need you—to help me to determine what is too far and why, so I have a reliable indicator of when my comments might not be appropriate. Or appreciated.”

Now you were positively incredulous. “What, you want to be less snarky? Are you feeling all right? Because you wanting to be less of a git makes me nervous.” The grin got bigger. Nuclear reaction in the heart of a glowing sun.

I attempted to look superior. I believe I failed.

“John, I’m trying.” Something in my voice made you look up. Your smile faded into something softer, and I felt my heart squeeze and leap (how does it DO that? It doesn’t actually, physically squeeze and leap, but the sensation is undoubtedly genuine). Your eyes, John; the sharpness of laughter in them slid sideways into a gentler, darker edge; I felt the ripple of desire rise once more along my spine, and all the small hairs on my body stood up in answer to your gaze. I fidgeted with my cuffs and lapels, trying to ease my suddenly awkward body. That almost-tender smile on your face – I have to look away.

“Sherlock, I don’t know if I can teach you those things. Most people learn interpersonal behavior at their parent’s knee, or in school, not from adult friends. I might not be the best person to ask, either; it’s not like my social skills are any great shakes.” You smile again, a little wider, a little sadder, and shake your head. Frankly, I am baffled by your assessment of yourself.  
“Everyone likes you, John. You’re approachable and outwardly easygoing. And besides, it’s you toward whom I want to be…less snarky. So of course I’ll come to you to help me figure out how to not make you angry, or sad, or upset in any way. You’re the only one whose reaction I really care about.”

Oh, damn. I may have said too much, but again my brain and mouth were at odds. How do people do it? How do people filter these words all day long, knowing exactly how to be nice to each other? I am a master at manipulation, but I cannot have a pleasant conversation with a stranger to save my life. And with you, John? My filter is wildly out of calibration; I lavish praise on you one moment (well, for me) and skewer you the next. And at that moment, I knew that my approbation had been recognized, because your eyes got even softer and your mouth curled at the corners, as it does when you’re really happy. I could feel a dull flush spreading up my neck, and hoped that the angled light in the kitchen would hide it at least a little.

“All right, Sherlock.” You were grinning again, edges sharpening and softening in a bewildering array of expression. Dizzying; electrifying. (I had to stop myself from panting like a runner. Breathe through the nose.) “We’ll keep working at it. We can start with ‘a bit not good’ again and work up from there.”

“Thank you, John. I appreciate the effort.” That sounded stilted even to me. I so wanted to rise and drop a soft kiss on your hair, smooth it back from your brow, run my fingers along the helix of your ear, where it is rosily translucent in the sunshine. I did none of those things, and kept the desperate need of them off my face as I sat in the kitchen with you, smiling.


	19. 15 March (entry 5)

This time, I had a different scheme in place. You were gone for the day, off to the surgery to assist Sarah in caring for the mucus-clogged multitudes shuffling in from the London streets. The flat was empty. Mrs. Hudson was out at her weekly bridge tournament. I had hours to myself.

Usually, I would have occupied myself with an experiment. There were innumerable fiddly things needing to be done to the molds I have growing under the sink. However, I had more exciting plans for this afternoon.

Hours. At least five long, luxurious hours until you came home.

And I was in your bed.

Naked.

I moved my limbs against your cool sheets; recently changed, possibly only yesterday, two days at the outside. I could rub my face against your pillow and smell your scent there, your shampoo, the light, sweaty musk of your hair; I think you must sleep with your arm tucked under your pillow, because the bottom edge smelled stronger and muskier and I could have buried my nose in it for hours. Just breathing. Breathing is boring, I said, but oh, when I was there, with my face pressed to your pillow, to the cloth where you lay your head each night, it was anything but. I wriggled a little, pressing my burgeoning erection against the give of the mattress, rolling a bit to feel the concavity where you must lie while you sleep. Oh, it was delicious, being there; I felt like a naughty schoolboy, getting away with something very, very bad. What if the headmaster should come in? Would he tawse me? Oh, yes, those are the thoughts I had: would you punish me for my unforgiveable transgression? Would your lips firm up, your eyes turn down, your head shake sorrowfully? Would your eyes glow a little, perhaps, at the thought of my punishment? I could feel my breathing quicken, then, at the thought of your kindled wrath, as I squirmed against smooth sheets that still smelled of your body. I breathed deeply, then, calming myself, and pulled the duvet and upper sheet over me, warm and snug, as if you’d come to tuck me in. I knew I would leave a bit of myself behind, here, on your sheets, in your bed, no matter how fastidiously I cleaned up after myself. I knew that somehow your brain would register – through scent, sight, touch – that I had left a trace with you, here, in the place where you were most vulnerable, although your conscious mind would never comprehend it, and only your dreams might be troubled by a hint of my passing presence.

 

I stretched luxuriously in the warmth, in the hidden smells of you. You must have masturbated there occasionally, although you continue to do so regularly in the shower; if I had believed you had brought yourself off here, I would have spent time examining every inch of the sheets for evidence. However, judging from the length of your showers over the past two days, I had already deduced that your routine was unchanged, and therefore I didn’t take the time. Scent is so evocative, so elusive; it brings us such comfort and distress, coercing from us as it does our deepest, most poignant memories. My memories were all of you as I sank bonelessly into your bed, stilling my movements for a moment, just breathing, being where you used to be.

Finally I moved again, languidly, still pressing my face into your pillow as I reached for the box of paraphernalia I had brought with me. I had everything I needed to pretend, again, that you were here with me, that you were touching me, stroking me, holding me, moving inside me, pressing against me all along the lengths of our bodies. And so I began again, touching myself, trying hard to pretend that it was you; because I wanted you, still want you, always. I rolled onto my back, stroked a hand down my chest, lightly, traced a swirling line over my nipple; it hardened at the thought of you touching it, and I heard myself suck in a little breath, a little gasp at the pleasure of it. I moved slowly, slowly over to the other nipple, just grazing the fine hairs on my chest, wondering what you would be thinking, what you would be feeling as you trailed your fingers over me in this way. My nipples were both hard then, and so sensitive that they ached; I pressed both palms against them, hard, and rubbed a little to ease it. My penis, half-hard since I had first breathed in your scent, was fully hard now against my stomach, and beginning to seep from the tip, just a bead or two that I could feel as warmth slowly cooling on my skin. I let go of one nipple to reach down, stroked myself lightly, slowly, wondering then if you would be hesitant at first or if you would be firm, knowledgeable, your experience helping you to read the signs of my pleasure and arousal. I closed my eyes and saw your face above me, by turns solemn, shy, eager, always radiant with your attention. I imagined that you would be my perfect lover, John, knowing the ways of my body better than I do, able to wring each lingering particle of delight from me, and I would learn your body perfectly as well. All the secret places of you. All the shadowy parts that hide from daylight under your clothing. As I stroke my erection, gliding more firmly now, I picture us, standing together, only our mouths touching, stripping off each others’ fabric protection, layer by layer coming to the most intimate, unseen places of our selves. Loving each other as the defenses strip away. Keeping each other safe, here, in the hidden places, as we do in the greater world.

And as I touched myself, thinking about you touching me, thinking about the love I have in my most sheltered heart for you, a strange and unaccustomed feeling stole over me. My chest felt heavy and tight, and my eyes burned, and I thought about us touching and how we have never touched like that and how the most likely outcome is that we never will, and the despair welled up in my eyes and trickled in hot little streams down my cheeks. Just for a moment I let myself feel that, the sharp pain of not-quite-loss, because how can I lose something that has never been? I had heard of emotional pain being like knives, John, like cruel blades slicing and cleaving, but I had always scoffed and proclaimed myself invulnerable. Caring is not an advantage, my brother always said, and I can see why he might say that – but caring, John, is what keeps you near me, and for that reason alone I think that caring is the most remarkable advantage I could ever know.

And thinking of you, loving you, feeling your hands on me, thinking of my name spoken with love in your mouth, I came all of a sudden with what I imagine was a choked howl, shocked and gasping as love washed through, my composure destroyed by the image of your face. And the knives, John, the blades still cleave me, they engrave your name upon my skin without remorse, but I realize with calm certitude that I would rather be pierced to the bone by my love for you than ever, ever give it up.


	20. 15 March (entry 6)

I cannot seem to get my masturbation strategies to work out lately.

I had plans, John, plans that involved lube and toys and making a filthy tangled mess of your immaculate regimental bed.

Instead, I found myself waking up from an unplanned nap twenty minutes before your expected arrival home. I was groggy and I was disoriented and I was still naked in your bed with a box of toys beside me, dried semen all over my belly and your sheets. At least I knew you wouldn’t be getting into bed before your regular bedtime; I could even keep you up later on some pretense, so your sheets will have time to dry from where I had hurriedly scraped off my ejaculate and wiped them down with a damp flannel. I kept my senses tuned for the click of your key in the lock, your step on the stair, as I flew up and down from your bedroom to the bathroom and my own room. And in plenty of time, for once, I managed to be lying on the couch not breathing too heavily when your key turned and your shuffle sounded in the downstairs foyer. I heard you halloo to Mrs. Hudson (hmm, I hadn’t heard her return: I must have been asleep) and exchange pleasantries before you mounted the stair to our flat. Seventeen steps, and I can count the ways I love to listen to you with each press of your sole on the riser. The gentler press of your hand on the doorknob made me shiver, and I held my breath and closed my eyes as you turned the knob and came through the door, bringing a wild scent of the outdoors with you.

You had walked through the park on your way home; I could smell the early cherry blossoms in your hair, and the weedy scent of the duck pond swirled around your ankles as you stopped to hang up your coat. Such a domestic arrival; I could almost taste the tea you’d be ready to prepare. You seemed content; your step was light, and you were not-quite-humming under your breath. A good day at work, then, not too much in the way of illness and much of interest. Perhaps you will share a patient’s story or two (without revealing too much, of course; you are extremely conscientious about your patient confidentiality, for which I of course adore scoffing at you). I did not ruin your mood tonight, I really didn’t; I was calm and nearly cheerful and really so deeply in love with you that I could barely speak for being in your presence. You, of course, registered this as abstraction with a project or a case or an experiment, and paid it no mind; and once again I am chastened by your essentially positive nature. Even with my equally essentially taciturn self on display, you are content to be present with me, just sitting, allowing me to simply exist in a way/ in ways no one else has ever managed to do.

“Hello, Sherlock,” you said, and I could hear your smile beneath the words. “Busy thinking? Want a cup of tea?”

Oh, it was so hard for me to keep my face impassive, when I wanted a smile that lighted the corners of the room to fly from my face to your eyes.

“Please,” I said, dismissively, as you expected. John, I need to be what you expect, at the same time that I long to be what you desire; but what, really, do you desire? A woman? A conventional life? A boring, ordinary existence? Obviously not, since you are here, again, with me, who left you stranded for three years on the shores of melancholy, who traded your life for semi-permanent death and made the contours of your eyes inexpressibly sad. I am back, now, and you are back here, in our flat, making tea, and the world seemed to right itself as you proceeded to do just that, under your breath not quite a hum, but a gentle susurrus of sound, replacing the regular hiss and hush of your breath with something lighter, freer, more enchanting. I listened intently, to forecast your mood, to determine what I would need to do throughout the evening to keep you here, in this place, both mental and physical, to strand you here in close proximity to me and to keep you close within the confines of my yearning heart.

“Here you go.” You placed my tea (made perfectly, of course; I had bloody awful tea while I was gone, John, no one can make it for me like you can) on the coffee table (I suppose we should rename it “tea table,” at least for the moment).

I allowed the left side of my mouth to rise and fall, just so, knowing that your eyes were fastened on my face to gauge my reaction, to see if once again I would be thanking you, raising your sense of wrongness, but I did as you anticipated and so you subsided in your chair, taking a sip of your own too-hot tea then sucking air over your tongue to cool it. I thought of touching your mouth with my tongue, then, of tasting tea there, of cooling the burn of liquid with the silky coolness of my lips. Not today.

“Heard from Lestrade lately?” you asked, casual, not casual; I could hear a thin, singing tension in your voice, as if you’re waiting not very patiently for me to lose my patience with inactivity and erupt into a sulky tornado. John, I have learned more patience in the last three years than I think I had ever experienced in my life before. I may never again fly into the kind of crazed sulk that you saw during our previous time together. I have a waiting praxis, now; I have finally attained a measure of tranquility in the face of boredom.

“No, not lately,” I replied, keeping my eyes closed, my hands positioned together under my chin as usual – usually to still their trembling when you are so near to me. I felt the sweeping curl of longing furl through me, the long wave of distraction, the sheeting desire lying transparent against the shingle of my breast. I breathed, deeply, feeling the rise of my sternum, the opening of bronchiae and the stretch of pectoral and abdominal muscles that told me I was getting air – even when my lightheadedness and tightened throat told me otherwise. Proximity, John – my ability to breathe is both facilitated and hindered dramatically by your presence. So baffling, this necessity and inhibition, and so very, very vexing – it is hard to conceal the catch in my breath, and as a doctor you are almost hyperaware of the workings of the human body. I like to believe that you are most completely tuned to mine, living, breathing, working in such closeness for so long, but at the same time I hope that you do not catch the signs that my body displays to you daily, that you remain for a time ignorant of the way each corpuscle of my being thrills in a cellular arpeggio when you are near, the way my blood thrums needily in my ears and through my veins, my physical self crying out to you my pain and pleasure. This involuntary reaction is quite foreign to me, who have always had a contempt for the physical body; but, John, you have woken this animal reaction, and I must accede to its demands while I endeavor to conceal it from your discerning medical eye.

I also cannot seem to record a brief conversation with you without enumerating the tells my body displays of my affection. It’s making me cross. I want to write what we talked about, not about my blasted feelings.

So. We sat (well, I lay) in our tiny lounge area, you in your accustomed armchair, I in my usual boneless flop on the sofa.

You sipped your tea, still a bit too hot but no longer scalding the tip of your delicious tongue. (Damn. I cannot seem to keep my words off your body. This constant thinking about you is driving me to distraction.)

“So, what have you been doing all day?”

Oh, John, if you only knew. I carefully schooled my face, lest the manic grin I felt building should show itself to you. I hesitate for a moment on the cusp of revelation – oh, I so want to know, John, what would you do if i told you? “I came in your bed,” I thought wildly to myself, trying not to giggle madly.

“Thinking” is what I actually said, which is true, because when I wasn’t asleep or in the insensible throes of orgasm I was, indeed, thinking – mostly of you, of course. “There are some experiments I’m interested in beginning, and I was thinking about what equipment I might need, and how best to begin gathering supplies.” This was all true, of course, although it had only occupied a small amount of my brain during the day. I shifted on the sofa, flopping onto my side so that I was facing you, watching you watch me move, wondering what you thought. Your face was interested, you were smiling slightly; I watched as your hand moved a bit on the arm of the chair, and your eyes flickered a bit as you watched my face.

“I was thinking of testing the chemical reactions of various common soap brands with stomach acids, after that case we had a few weeks ago. Next time you go to Tesco, could you pick up several bars of each of the most popular brands?”

You relaxed a bit, slumping in your chair, smiling. You enjoy being useful. “Sure. We’ll need milk by tomorrow; I can pick some up then. How many brands do you think you’ll want?”

“Oh,” I waved one hand dismissively. “Five or six should be plenty. I just want to get a general idea in case I want to investigate further.”

I love watching you closely. You are more intelligent than I usually give you credit for aloud, and it showed then on your face as you thought of the ways in which such a study might be useful in the future, both in criminal investigations and in the medical field.

“And yes, of course I’ll share my findings with you. It might be quite interesting to write up into an article at some point.”

You looked surprised and almost nervous for a moment, then smiled again. “I’m still not used to that yet-- I mean, again.”

“Used to what?” I had been distracted actually thinking about something that wasn’t you for a change -- the experiment could be very interesting indeed, given the right chemical reactions.

“You. Your instant deductions. The way you can just pull what I’m thinking out of thin air.” 

I looked over at you again. Your face, John. That smile had gone soft, and you were looking at me with such affection that I could feel the blush rise to the roots of my hair. I hoped the light was dim enough that you wouldn’t see it.

“Well. It has... been some time.” I felt that I ought to reply, make a gesture of apology, again -- although we’d been through that for weeks when I first returned. “I feel as if I ought to apologize again, John; should I?” I was embarrassed, nervous. I plucked at my dressing gown to hide my shaking fingers.

You gaped at me. “What?”

“This pertains to our conversation of this morning, when you...agreed to help me with my friendship skills.” I felt as if the words had simply tumbled out in a rush; I couldn’t unsay them. “Should I apologize again, for being gone for so long? For my sudden reappearance?” I didn’t look at you then. I fiddled with my sash, noted three separate types of dirt on the carpet, made a list in my head of ingredients for an experiment on deathwatch beetles.

“Oh, Sherlock.” I glanced up. Your face, John! I had to look away quickly; your eyes were shining, you were glowing with approbation and warmth. I could barely stand to be in the same room with you all of a sudden -- I wanted to throw myself across the space between us, sit in your lap, straddle your legs and press my lips to yours, catch your face between my palms and rub against you like a cat. I tried to control my breathing; I felt as if you could hear each beat of my heart like tympani echoing from the walls.

“That is... actually... rather sweet.” You seemed baffled, amused. Why? Am I never sweet to you? I should be sweet, should be saccharine-and-honey-sweet, should bring you flowers and chocolates and dedicate each moment of my life to making sure each one of your needs is met flawlessly. Of course, I am complete rubbish at this; how do you stand me? How can you take this awkward apology and make it seem as if it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard?

“Um, “ you continued, then stopped. You shook your head, smiled your curly smile, rubbed at your forehead with your hand. “I can’t say that your apology isn’t welcome, but you don’t have to keep repeating it over and over. We’ve been over it, Sherlock, for weeks we went back and forth over it. I know you’re sorry for leaving, I know why you did it, and even if I don’t really understand all your reasoning, I know you felt it was the only thing you could do at the time.” You slouched further in your chair, hands grasping its arms, your look becoming determined if not less affectionate. “So, for the record: if you feel like apologizing, it’s probably a good time. But if you just think I WANT you to apologize, then you can ask me if you should or not. Ok?”

I smiled a quick smile at you, not quite meeting your eyes -- I was afraid you would see the intensity of my regard, how I want to devour you with my lips and hands. I was so sure that you would recognize that look if you saw it, even on my face -- you have been the object of desire for so many; how could you not see? And oh, damn, damn and blast, I had to answer you, I had to make my voice not shake and keep my tone level through the keening of my blood.

“Yes, John. That sounds acceptable.” I smiled at you again, and you settled back in your chair, smiling back at me, and every single thing in existence slotted neatly into place.


	21. 16 March

We ended up watching another Bond movie.

You had hesitated to ask me; you weren’t sure of your reception, perhaps since I had often belittled your taste in films in the past, and especially enjoyed rolling my eyes at your obvious penchant for cars, guns, and explosions (quite interesting, really, in light of your debatable PTSD and still-recurrent nightmares). However, I consented with alacrity (after a show of disdain and much eye-rolling), eager to spend an evening with you together in our flat. We hadn’t done much of that since my return, and this invitation seemed part of the slow refolding of me into your life. I also felt as if you were needling me, somehow; you seemed on edge, and your smile had a spiky quality I was unused to seeing. Our conversation wasn’t quite as effortless as it used to be before I left you, of course, but tonight it had an uneasy undertone that I couldn’t quite place. You seemed restless until we settled on the couch; then you seemed to relax into the cushions, giving a little sigh that I hoped meant contentment.

It was wonderful.

Not the movie, of course; dull, pointless, predictable, although some of the explosions were potentially interesting. No, it was us, sitting on the couch together, like we used to do before. You even made a bowl of popcorn for us, and we sat watching Bond act like an idiot for approximately two hours. But for a whole two hours I was able to watch you, under cover of watching the film; I watched your eyes crinkle and your lips part. I watched the subtle shift and slide of muscle under your familiar blue striped jumper (my favorite; it fits you perfectly, and brings out the depths of blue in your eyes). I wanted to lick the salt and butter from your mouth; I could see their subtle shine in the light from the television, and I was desperate to touch my tongue there, just there, where a few salt crystals clung to the corner of that sweet curve. We sat close together, so close that our thighs touched; we pressed together there from hip to knee, comfortable. My trembling at your nearness was scarcely noticeable. You pulled the blanket from your chair and tucked it around both of us at one point, sharing body warmth; I think you thought I was cold. You were...sweet. You turned to me often during the movie, as if to speak, but catching my eye you closed your mouth and smiled a little (why did your smile look sad?) and turned back to the TV.

And after the movie, when you were drowsy and fuddled and looked as if you’d slept in your clothes, I wanted to gather you up and roll with you into my bed, take you apart with my fingers and teeth, nuzzle into your neck and arch against you, hard and wanting. With you in such a sleepy state, a half drowsiness that I discovered to my delight brought out the affectionate side of your subconscious, I almost imagined that I could do those things. That you would be willing to take me, sink into me in whichever way you chose.

“John,” I whispered as your head slid against my shoulder, the only vocalisation that I would allow myself -- hoping that it would go unheard.

Of course it didn’t, and you started, moving up and away from me as you returned to your senses.

“Right.” You were quick and efficient as you retrieved the DVD and shut down the TV, almost soldierly as you marched through the kitchen towards the bathroom, although, of course, only the bathroom, and not -- of course not -- my bedroom.

“Good night, Sherlock,” you said, and smiled again, after you’d used the loo and brushed your teeth.

“Good night, John.”

You paused, again, at the doorway to the stairs, and I saw you gather yourself, turning as if to say one last thing. Determined. You said nothing for a moment, however, eyes fixed on the wall, and I was curious.

“What is it, John?”

As our eyes met, your posture softened, seemed almost defeated, and you smiled that same, nearly-sad smile again

“Doesn’t matter, Sherlock.” You went up the stairs.

And if I went to my bedroom silently, shut the door on another night without you, crept beneath my chill covers and mourned myself softly to sleep, who could blame me?


	22. 16 March (entry 2)

Sherlock.

My god.

Sherlock.


	23. 16 March (entry 3)

God, Sherlock, for a genius you really are abysmally stupid.

I love you. 

I think I’ve loved you -- god, forever, since before we met. Definitely since I shot Jeff Hope to keep you from killing yourself. Fucking madman.

I fucking love you, and I want you, and when I see you again you will know it.

It’s been eighteen hours. Enough time for me to find this journal, and read it, and feel my heart break and explode about eighteen hundred times. I cannot wait to get my hands on you. First, I’ll punch you in the face. Then, second and third and fourth...


	24. 16 March (entry 4)

You mad bastard. What makes you think you can go buggering off -- again -- without telling anyone where you’ve gone -- again-- without a note, and leave us all hanging, especially me? You’ve been gone now for twenty hours. I’m fucking going insane.

Lestrade just called. They’ve got a lead. I’m going to NSY to check it out.

This isn’t the end.


	25. 17 March

Look at me, using the same system of entry notation as you. I can’t seem to break that pattern, even though you’ve been gone now for 38 hours and I’m feeling more hopeless all the time. We know the guys who took you; they’re vicious, Sherlock, and I’m so afraid for you. Not just for your life -- although that’s a constant fucking fear, believe me -- but I’m afraid of all the terrible things they could do to you, to your beautiful face, my god, that I’ve never even touched, or kissed, to your body, I can’t even think about that right now -- I will hunt them down, and I will send them to hell.

I’m taking a break right now. Lestrade sent me home, although he knew I wanted to stay; he could see that I was strung out and exhausted, but he couldn’t see, like you would, that I wouldn’t be able to sleep when I got here. It’s been over 38 hours since you’ve been gone. So here I am -- this time, it’s me in your bed, worried about getting ink on your thousand-thread-count sheets, and god I can smell your shampoo on the pillow -- is this what it’s been like for you? It’s overwhelming. I’ve never dared to come in here, like you have into my room -- you’ve always been such a private person, really more private than me, and your room has always been kind of off limits. Now I’m rambling. God, Sherlock, where the fuck are you? It’s killing me that I’ve read this journal -- read your most secret thoughts and fears -- and haven’t seen you. 

The journal -- opening it was like opening your brain, seeing inside for the first time, learning such new and astonishing things -- and it was as if you were saying all the things I’ve been thinking about for so long. I wanted to go and breathe in my bed, see if I could smell you on my sheets. I wanted to find your box of “paraphernalia” and use it all and think of you, damn, you fucker. I’m afraid to say the things I’m thinking -- that I wanted to do all the things you describe yourself doing. God. And that I want to do them all to you. And that I’m getting hard just writing this; that I was hard after your first sentence, that I want to shove you against the wall and grind my hips against yours and open your lips with my tongue. God. This is insane. You are insane. I’m in love with a madman. I love you.


	26. 17 March (entry 2)(18:40, 38 hrs)

Where are you, Sherlock?


	27. 17 March (entry 3)(19:10, 41 hrs)

got a call from Lestrade going now more when I get back


	28. 18 March

(00:45, ~~43.75 hrs)~~ 45.75 hrs) Keep it together, Watson.

God. This is driving me mad. Waiting, waiting, for a call from Lestrade that’s more than just a false lead or an attempt at reassurance. It’s been more than forty-five hours now. It’s the middle of the night. I’m awake, home, staring at the walls, and my nerves are tight enough for a firefight. Waiting like this isn’t my strong suit, not really. I got used to waiting in Afghanistan; I was even more familiar with it during those three years you were gone. I waited a long time, then, for something to happen, something that I thought never would, not really. And then, suddenly, there you were again, back from the dead where you never really were, and it was so good, so amazing and fantastic. I was hurt that you hadn’t told me, so very hurt that you made me believe you were dead. And I really did believe it, Sherlock. All the evidence pointed that way -- well, all the physical evidence, at least. My mind really didn’t get it, for the longest time; I kept thinking -- well, you know, we’ve talked about this--


	29. 18 March (entry 2)(02:00, 47 hours)

I did it, Sherlock.

I went back, in the middle of the night, and reread the journal (I’d call it your journal but it’s ours now).

Not that I haven’t reread it before -- I keep going over and over those scenes, god, picturing you, so beautiful, so gorgeous, fuck, with your arse up in the air like you said -- I couldn’t help it. 

When I went back to the beginning and pictured you against your bed, just thinking of me, thinking of me with my hands on you and my fingers in you and my mouth on you

and my mouth on you, god

I lay back on your bed, Sherlock, and I started drawing circles and spirals over my chest  
thinking about you doing the same thing

I dragged my hand down, further, and I palmed myself through my jeans

and then I said fuck it and I took all my clothes off and lay naked in your bed, just curling up in the place you sleep

and I kept touching myself, just a little, wondering what it will be like to touch you, to have you touch me, and the sheets warmed, so soft, and felt a little like your hands touching me

god

your hands, how I’ve dreamed about them, your long beautiful fingers and how they would play my body like you play your violin, stroking and petting and wringing sounds from me that no one else ever has

and I lay in your bed, and I pretended that my hand was yours, and it was you stroking me, your fingers around my cock, your breath hot in my ear, on my skin, your fingers working over me touching my chest playing with my nipples oh god, I imagined your mouth, tongue darting out and circling, and you climbing down my body to put that fucking gorgeous amazing mouth around my cock and sucking

oh

fuck

and I came all over my hand and my belly and your fucking fantastic sheets.

\------------

And I’ve made a mess of the journal.


	30. Chapter 30 (05:00, 50 hrs)

Oh, god. What if this journal is all an experiment? I will fucking kill you, Sherlock. 

 

No. God, don’t be.... Sorry. Just. You can experiment, okay?


	31. 18 March (20:30, 65.5 hours)

Lestrade called with a lead. Somebody spotted the guys we think are responsible. I’m heading out to check it out. I wanted to say one last thing here, in private, where we can ignore it if we need to, before anything happens to -- between -- us, if it’s really going to happen: I don’t want to live my life without you in it.


	32. 19 March

You

I

John


	33. 19 March (entry 2)

Write it here, Sherlock.

~~I know... I... that you --~~

Write it here if you ~~can’t --~~ can’t.


	34. 19 March (entry 3)

John.

I love you.

I’ve said it so many times to myself it seems odd to write it here, again, knowing that you will see. I’ve kept this part of myself private for so long, so hopelessly, that sharing it with you feels like I’m opening the cavity of my chest and showing you my red blood and beating heart. 

You saved me.

From myself, first and foremost; you came into my life when I had pushed everyone else away, and refused to see what others saw -- the freak, the sociopath. You saw what no one else saw -- you saw my vulnerability, my emotions. I showed them to you. It was...a bit exhilarating. Like staring down the barrel of a gun.

I’m normally so eloquent here, but I can’t get my thoughts to coalesce -- you’ve addled my brain, John. God. Your mouth on mine is all I can think about.

 

Come here.


	35. 19 March (entry 4)

 

 

Including this shining example of John’s writing style here for posterity - S. H.  
  
Ha ha. “Lost without my blogger,” remember? Wanker. - J. W.  
  
Wanker? Yes. - S. H.  
  
  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------  
The blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
  
20th March  
  
Untitled  
  
  
[[I need to write this right now, because otherwise I’ll never write down exactly what did happen during that fucking case.  Or after.]] DELETE LATER  
  
I woke up on the 16th to find the flat empty.  No Sherlock; no note; no text; no idea where he’d gone.  I sent him a text telling him to pick up milk on his way home (like that would have happened) but got no reply, not even a snarky one telling me to get it myself if I wanted it that badly.  I had no reason to be alarmed; it wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to disappear for hours at a time.  It wasn’t until I’d come home from the surgery around 6 to a cold flat that I wondered what was up.  Then, at about 19:30, I got a text from D. I. Lestrade that shot me out of my armchair and down to NSY.  He had got a [REDACTED 20/3: MH] from someone claiming to have Sherlock Holmes as a hostage.  
  
When I arrived at Lestrade’s office, he couldn’t tell me much.  [REDACTED 20/3: MH]  Lestrade had sent some of his team out to have a look around, but had had no luck yet.  His minions were currently looking through CCTV footage of Baker Street to see if they could see anything; with my help, they were able to narrow the timing down to between 0100 and 0700.  Sherlock had been gone for at least eighteen hours.  
  
There was nothing more I could do at the Yard, so Lestrade sent me home and told me to see if there was anything I could find that would help point them in the right direction.  I know he was just humoring me, getting me out of the Yarders’ hair, but I thought that maybe I could find something.  Sherlock had been gone twenty hours.  
  
At home, I didn’t find anything that led me anywhere nearer Sherlock’s abductors. I thought to let Mycroft know what was going on, so I called his number and left a message with one of his subordinates. He’d be able to help, if anyone could.  I went to bed and tossed and turned for the rest of the night.  
  
I knew from experience that the longer a person is missing, the slimmer the chances of them ever being found.  
  
The next day was hell.  By the time I got to NSY, Sherlock had been missing for nearly thirty hours.   I drank far too much bad NSY coffee and irritated all of D. I. Lestrade’s team with my constant pestering.  I called and left Mycroft another message as well. Also, [REDACTED 20/3: MH] Lestrade sent me home after eight hours, telling me to try to get some rest.  I was too upset to comply, so I drank far too much tea and stared at crap telly all night.  Early the next morning, I got another call from NSY.  They had another lead.  
  
I went in and found that Lestrade had decided to go over the CCTV tapes again because there had been a mixup in the times of the tapes they’d gathered last time.  He was furious, and was making his minions work round the clock trying to make up for lost time.  
  
That’s when Mycroft called Lestrade.  I was actually surprised that it had taken him this long to get involved. It turned out that he had just been informed about the police’s interest in the cameras around Baker Street; the search, of course, had raised a red flag in his office, but due to a bureaucratic screw up he hadn’t been informed until that morning, and my message had never got to him.  This double mess seemed like more than a coincidence to both of them, and investigations were put in tandem. Mycroft told Lestrade that they’d caught some footage of Sherlock talking to someone on the far side of Regent’s Park.  It appeared to Mycroft that Sherlock had been drugged, because the footage showed him collapsing against this person and being stuffed into the boot of a nearby car.  The CCTV cameras were able to get a partial plate ID, which confirmed that it was a hired car from an agency off the Marylebone Road.  So much for that lead.  But Mycroft had his office on it, and by the evening of the 18th they were able to trace the car at least to an industrial part of Hackney Wick; from there, Mycroft’s and Lestrade’s combined forces managed to find three empty warehouses that were possible holding places.  
  
It had been sixty-five hours since Sherlock had been abducted.  Tensions were running high, and Lestrade had a hard time keeping Mycroft from turning the whole case over to MI5. Lestrade kept telling him that the operation was already in motion, teams were being assemble, and it would just take longer to get MI5 involved at this point. Mycroft finally just thinned his lips and walked out when Lestrade yelled at him to let him get on with it already.  
  
The search was pretty grim. It was night time by the time we got out to the warehouses, and the weather had turned damp and cold.  I was worried for Sherlock; hypothermia is easily come by when you’ve got no body fat and no reserves since you don’t eat.  We drove in as quietly as possible with a flock of pandas, unmarked vehicles, and an ambulance -- unlike Sherlock, I don’t have an aversion to riding in police cars, but I rode with DI Lestrade in his unmarked vehicle since that was easiest.  No lights, no sirens, just the crunching hiss of the tires on scarred wet asphalt.  The warehouses loomed around us, cutting off any view of the sky with their prefab metal walls. Despite being outside I felt claustrophobic, as if these huge, empty buildings were hemming me in and preventing any means of escape.  Ridiculous, really, seeing as how I was accompanied by about two dozen of London’s finest.  It didn’t help, in the dark and the rain, because all I wanted to do was find Sherlock, alive.  
  
The first warehouse the team secured was empty, of course, but they had to check every corner just in case.  On approaching the second one, though, I got a prickling feeling up the back of my neck, and I noticed that the officers around me had gone even more tense and alert.  As we crept towards the cargo doors, I noticed fresh tire marks nearby in the potholes, and brought them to Lestrade’s attention; he nodded and gestured to his officers to get moving to surround the building. I stayed at Lestrade’s side, wishing more than ever that I was allowed to carry a weapon.  No matter; his officers would take care of any fighting that needed to be done.  It was unlikely that we’d find anyone other than Sherlock.  We were just hoping that we would find him.  
  
Lestrade was conferring quietly with Sally Donovan about the next step they’d take when a dark car turned between the warehouses and pulled to a stop next to us.  It surprised neither me nor Lestrade when Mycroft stepped out of the back. He nodded to Lestrade, who gave him a distracted hand-wave, and walked over to stand next to me.  
  
“John,” he said, and nodded slightly by way of greeting. “I take it he hasn’t been found yet.”  
  
“This might be it, though,” I replied. “There’s evidence of activity here; we’re just waiting for the police to get into position before we go in.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “‘We,’ is it? I commend you on your attachment to New Scotland Yard, Doctor Watson.”  
  
“Oh, stuff it, Mycroft.” I shook my head and left him standing there. Lestrade had motioned me over; we were about to find out if Sherlock was in the warehouse.  
  
A team of Specialist Firearms Officers from CO19 were on site, ready to engage if necessary.  Two AFOs were by the warehouse’s large cargo door;  two other of Lestrade’s officers were there to assist.  There was a small entry door next to the large cargo hatch, and Lestrade’s team and the SFO’s shuffled into position around it. The groups exchanged signals; with a crash and a shout, they flung open the door to the warehouse and dove inside. Through the door, I could see their torches as they spread out and moved further into the building.  There was some shouting back and forth, then one SFO poked her head out the door.  
  
“Clear!” she yelled, and Lestrade’s officers moved in.  I was close behind.  
  
The warehouse was huge, dim, and musty, and felt like a deep-freeze. I couldn’t help but think of Sherlock, and hoped that they’d at least given him some sort of covering other than his coat. The torch beams still moved across the walls and ceilings, illuminating the rusty steel beams that crossed the ceiling and supported it throughout.  Although it was mostly open inside, there was what looked like a bank of office space along the right hand side, and it was there that the police were concentrating their search. There were three doors leading into the darkened spaces, and as the officers searched, they emerged shaking their heads.    
  
“It looks like someone’s been here recently, but nothing now, sir.”  
  
Nothing. I still felt that prickle on the back of my neck, and judging from the other officers’ posture, they felt the same: Sherlock was here somewhere.  
  
As I squinted at the boxlike offices, I noticed that they partially hid a kind of makeshift railed gallery that ran along their tops.  I told Lestrade what I was looking for, and in no time we found the set of steep steel stairs leading upward. I almost flew up them; for a moment I thought that my hunch was wrong, but shining my borrowed torch carefully along the wall, I found him.  
  
Sherlock was motionless, hunched over drawn-up knees, his arms bound behind him somehow. He did still have his coat, and it seemed to be wrapped or buttoned around him at least, but no other covering. When I reached his side and felt for the pulse just under his jaw, I could feel how cool his skin was. His pulse was slow and thready, and I could feel only a tiny intermittent shiver run through him -- his body was starting to shut down. We needed to get him out of here and to the hospital right away. I thought he was unconscious, but he stirred a bit and spoke, and we were able to get him freed (he had been bound from elbow to fingertips with duct tape, then duct taped to the beam behind him).  He couldn’t stand, and he wasn’t altogether coherent, but hearing his voice and seeing that his eyes were able to focus reassured me that he would be fine.  
  
The ambulance crew were quick and efficient, and in no time Sherlock was bundled in warming blankets and fitted with an IV.  Of course he was as much of an arse to the paramedics as he could be in his condition, but I rode with him in the ambulance to minimize their suffering. He had to spend the night in hospital, of course, but we returned to 221B the next morning with orders to rest and recuperate.  
  
As of this post, the police are still looking for the people who did this to Sherlock, although he’s given the Met excellent descriptions of his captors and directions on how to find them. Sherlock hadn’t actually been up on that gallery the whole time; the offices below it had rudimentary heating, and they had kept him there for two days, only leaving him bound to the wall when they realized that their plan to scramble the CCTV cameras had failed.  
  
I asked Sherlock why they hadn’t just killed him.  
  
He didn’t answer.  
  
  
  
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	36. Chapter 36

“John.”

...

“I knew you’d find me.”


	37. Chapter 37

When John first ran up the stairs to the gallery and frantically shone his torch into the dusty blackness, ran to Sherlock and stumbled to his knees beside him, felt in a panic for the elusive pulse, he hadn’t thought about what he would say. How they would meet, after this one-sided exchange. How he would be nervous, and tentative, and clumsy. None of this mattered; all that mattered was that Sherlock was safe, alive, and relatively unharmed. John, the ex-Army Doctor, pushed everything aside except ensuring that his friend got the care he needed.   
  
“Sherlock,” he said loudly, trying for a response. He didn’t stir.  
  
Sherlock’s skin was soft, very cool, and his hair brushed the back of John’s fingers as he pressed under the jawline. There was his pulse, steady but faint; John ignored his urge to sob with relief and got on with his examination. He patted Sherlock gently all over, checking for obvious injury or trauma, saying his name to try to call him back from unconsciousness. John could feel that Sherlock wasn’t shivering regularly, a bad sign; he could, however, feel an intermittent tremor that meant his body was still trying to warm itself. He needed to get Sherlock out of here and into that ambulance.  
  
“Jesus.” Sherlock had been restrained with duct tape, wound around the sleeves of his coat and over his leather gloves, all the way from his elbows to the very tips of his fingers.  The dull silver tape spiralled around each arm, then joined, pulled cruelly tight so that his elbows nearly met behind him, trapped at an awkward angle. The layered tape was nearly half a centimeter thick; there was no way that Sherlock could have twisted free, although John could tell by the condition of the tape that he had tried. Sherlock’s arms were pressed right up against a steel I-beam in the wall, and the tape wrapped all the way around in the space between the beam and the wall of the warehouse.  The tape was then also pulled around Sherlock’s torso, wrapped around his coat in a thick, wide band, preventing him from simply slipping out of the coat and gloves. He had his knees drawn up in front of him, as if he’d tried to curl up into his own warmth, and his head had dropped onto his knees.   
  
Thankfully, they hadn’t used the gaffer tape to gag him. John gently peeled at the strips of wide medical tape they had used, easing it away from Sherlock’s skin and hair. Sherlock’s breathing was slow but shallow. He stirred slightly at the tape’s pull, but subsided without any hint that he knew he was no longer alone.  
  
Lestrade had been right behind John, and he held a second torch as he called to someone below, “We’ve got him! We need shears, he’s bound with gaffer tape!” More shouts rang through the warehouse, but John couldn’t be bothered to listen. Lestrade yelled again, “Get the paramedics in here!”  
  
John began to catalogue the bruises he could see in the torch’s beam: cheekbone, temple, chin, each one unleashing a tiny furl of rage in John’s chest. He felt for Sherlock’s pulse again reflexively, then allowed his fingers to smooth upward, lightly tracing the angle of Sherlock’s jawline,  unable to keep himself from touching, now that he knew, now that he might...he found his fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and he shivered; it flooded through him at last: relief, anticipation, good god. Love.   
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“John.” It was a raspy whisper, barely more than a hint of sound, but it was Sherlock’s voice, and his head stirred where it rested on his knee.  
  
John let out the breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. “Oh, thank god, Sherlock.”   
  
“I knew you’d find me.”  
  
“Of course you did.” John felt his heart leap a little when Sherlock opened his eyes a crack; his lips looked chapped in the torchlight, a bit torn from the tape, and there was a bruise forming on one side of his mouth. “You’ll be fine now. Let’s just get you free, ok? Here’s Lestrade with some shears.” He kept up a meaningless patter, a kind of soothing murmur to reassure Sherlock that he wasn’t about to leave his side. Sherlock kept trying to move his head to look at John until John finally crouched closer, his face at eye level with Sherlock’s. Hand still at Sherlock’s nape, just resting, reassuring. Saying nonsense, he knew, as Lestrade first cut the tape holding Sherlock to the wall, allowing him to slump forward into John’s arms. He helped him to straighten his cramped legs, then his arms as Lestrade freed them, wincing in sympathy as Sherlock hissed, eyes snapping open, muscles protesting the new position. John sat beside him on the cold floor; he didn’t care who saw him pull Sherlock into his lap, cradling his head with his hand. Sherlock’s head was on his shoulder; his arm was around Sherlock’s body. Sherlock couldn’t use his arms yet, and John tried to position them so as to cause him the least pain, pulling off Sherlock’s ruined gloves and tucking his hands as far under the front flap of his coat as he could.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said again, eyes closing in relief.   
  
“I know, Sherlock. I’m here. I’ve got you, love.” He felt a shudder move through Sherlock’s body at the words, felt him try to pull away.  John felt profoundly relieved, and exhilarated, and reckless, and fierce. He pulled Sherlock closer and began to speak, low and fast. “You aren’t going anywhere; you can’t even stand up. You will sit here and wait for the paramedics, and you will listen to me, because I’m damned if I’ll wait another minute, even if it’s bloody awful timing. I know you can hear me. Are you listening?” He waited, and after a moment he felt Sherlock give a tiny nod. “Good, love. Yes,” as he felt Sherlock stiffen again, “I mean it, Sherlock, d’you think I’d say it if I didn’t? God, I love you. You’re brilliant and you’re gorgeous and you’re a bloody idiot running off like that, which you will never do again, by the way, and when you’re feeling up to it I’m going to kiss you--”   
  
John cut off as Sherlock made a soft little strangled noise and burrowed his face further into John’s neck. John felt him take a breath, let it out in a tremulous sigh, and relax completely. John couldn’t help tightening his arms. “God, Sherlock. You were gone for days; I thought I’d lost you before I’d even had the chance. I had to tell you, now, so you’ll know always.” He turned his head a bit and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hair. It smelled of grease and dust and smoke and salt sweat. John breathed in, dizzied, thinking he'd never smelled anything so wonderful in his life. "And you know, I don't really care now if you don't, or can't say it, or never want anything more than this. It'll all be fine."  
  
Sherlock shook his head against John's, and John thought he felt a spot of moisture on his neck. He wanted to squeeze Sherlock harder, hold onto him forever, but the paramedics were suddenly there, and there was the stretcher and they were lifting Sherlock carefully and strapping him in for the trip down the stairs. Then they were loading him into the ambulance, and they were shaking their heads, saying “No” to John, and John got very, very serious.  
  
“I’m his physician as well as his friend. Now. Let. Me. Through.”  
  
Lestrade said something he didn't hear to the paramedic, who finally shrugged and backed off.   
  
John clambered into the back of the ambulance, taking the flip-down seat near Sherlock's head. The paramedics had brought warming blankets and warm compresses. They also started a warmed IV to rehydrate him. Sherlock was still strapped into the stretcher, but the hand closest to John twitched under the covers. John looked down at Sherlock’s face; he hadn’t really had a chance to study it since he had seen the contusions earlier, and he noted now how pale Sherlock looked in the fluorescent light of the ambulance. His eyes were closed, and there was a little frown between them. John slipped his hand under the warming blankets and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s, trying not to make his grip seem too desperate. Sherlock kept his hand still at first, then, when John didn’t move away, he closed his fingers slowly around John’s.   
  
The paramedics had been bustling about getting the vehicle ready to go, and as soon as the driver got into the front, the second paramedic readied an oxygen mask and efficiently slipped it over Sherlock’s head -- or tried to. Sherlock twisted his head, trying to avoid it.  
  
“This is an oxygen mask; it’ll help you breathe better, and make you strong faster,” the paramedic said soothingly.  
  
“I know what it is; I just don’t want it on my face,” Sherlock snapped -- or tried to. His voice came out in a kind of stuttering, growling hiss, and John tried not to giggle with the wave of relief that swept through him at the absolute normalcy of Sherlock’s comment.  
  
“I don’t care if you don’t want it; you’re going to have it,” John said, and smiled as Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Medically necessary -- humidified oxygen to help warm your lung tissue.”  
  
If Sherlock could have flounced, he would have; instead, he accepted the mask with bad grace, glaring at John the whole time. John felt almost giddy, and couldn’t help the smile that kept crossing his face. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently, circling his thumb on the back. Sherlock was trying to keep his eyes open, but his ordeal and the warmth of the ambulance conspired against him. John just looked, noting the way Sherlock’s eyelashes lay against his cheeks, and the way his hair curled wildly around the strap of the oxygen mask. John scooted as close as he could and put his other hand on Sherlock’s cool forehead, smoothing his hair back and stroking the little frown lines with his thumb.   
  
Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up into John’s face. He couldn’t really speak with the oxygen mask in place, but John saw his lips move, recognized his name, saw the doubt and apprehension in Sherlock’s eyes. There were shadows there he wanted to chase away. He smiled down, trying to put in his expression everything he wasn’t able to say.  
  
“It’s true,” he said simply.    
  
Sherlock’s eyes shut, and he took three fast, deep breaths; John felt his fingers tighten, and then his thumb, very tentatively, began to move against John’s hand. John thought his heart would break at the tenderness, the uncertainty in that small gesture.  
  
He bent and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, gently because of the bruise forming there. “Sherlock,” John breathed next to his ear, and saw him shiver, relaxing at last into the blankets, allowing the warmth to comfort him. He’d begin shivering in earnest soon, and that would be good, because it meant his body was fighting off the cold with movement.   
  
In the meantime, John stroked Sherlock’s hair off his forehead and said, still bending close, “You’re going to feel even more like hell soon. And you’ll be staying overnight in the hospital, no argument.” He felt more than saw Sherlock’s smile under the mask. “I won’t leave you.”   
  
He saw Sherlock swallow again, the smile disappearing, his eyes searching John’s face.   
  
“I won’t,” John repeated softly. “And when we’re alone, in the hospital, I’m going to tell you all about what happened while you were gone. I’m going to tell you what I thought, and how I felt, and... what I wrote.”  Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and John giggled. “Oh, I’ll let you deduce it, don’t worry. I won’t spoil it for you.” His hand kept moving, stroking Sherlock’s hair; he could feel the shaking beginning to increase.   
  
“Okay, you’re starting to shiver more. That’s good, but it won’t be enjoyable. I’ll really be here the whole time. We’ll get you settled in your room and warmed up, then you can eat something later.”   
  
The paramedic, whom John had all but forgotten was there, said, “We’re almost at the hospital now. Just a couple of minutes.” She smiled at John and busied herself making sure Sherlock’s stretcher was ready to go.  
  
Sherlock was starting to shudder now, waves of shivering making his body nearly convulse. John thought he looked more resigned than nervous, and asked, “Have you had hypothermia before?”  
  
Sherlock nodded through his shivering. His mask was slipping from the movement of his head on the pillow, and John adjusted it gently.  
  
“Let me try to distract you until we get you into hospital,” John said into Sherlock’s ear. He could feel Sherlock’s attention focus on him, and smiled. “I’m sure you can guess some of the things I’ve been up to since you ran off. Of course you can’t talk, but I can give you some hints and give you something to think about while you’re...vibrating.” John giggled again. Despite his anxiety over Sherlock’s condition, logically he knew Sherlock would be fine, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this completely, overwhelmingly, giddily happy.  
  
Sherlock managed to snort through his shivering. John was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of desire so strong he lost his breath. He closed his eyes, finally sucking a breath in through his nose at the rush of sensation, trying to ignore the sudden discomfort of too-tight clothing. His fingers clenched in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock made a choked sound. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s gone wide; John tugged a little before he let go, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed. Distraction. God, even half-dead with cold, he was incandescent.  
  
John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s temple again, then, unable to stop himself, opened his lips and dragged them softly across Sherlock’s skin, breathing in the scent that went straight to his groin. “God, I want you. I should be worried about you, but all I can think about is getting you into bed.” He teased Sherlock’s ear with his breath, whispering. “I want to feel you under me. I want to get my hands on you, touch every bit of you.” He dared touch the tip of his tongue to Sherlock’s earlobe, first darting a glance at the paramedic to make sure she wasn’t watching. “God, I want to see you like that. On your bed, waiting for me. Ready.” He was skating the edge of sanity, here, doing this in the ambulance, but after living so long with this frustration and finally feeling its dissipation, John Watson wanted.  
  
“G-god, John, s-stop!” Sherlock’s teeth were chattering, and his voice was raspy and muffled by the mask, but the look he gave John was so heated he felt the sharp spike of raw arousal like a punch in the gut.  
  
“Ok, I’ll stop.” John stroked Sherlock’s forehead again, gently. “Enough distraction, hmm?”  
  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, but not before John saw a hint of panic there.  
  
“No, that’s not what I meant, you idiot.” John chuckled softly. “Not you.”  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes again, still wary. “John.”  
  
“I’m right here, love.”  
  
“How — Why — Us —” His eyes were huge, dark, and wondering, but the shadows John had seen there earlier were gone.  
  
The ambulance pulled to a stop, and the paramedic called, “Here we are!”  
  
John bent once more to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. His eyes crinkled, and he laughed with joy. “I read your bloody journal.”


	38. Chapter 38

Mycroft Holmes stood outside his brother’s hospital room, waiting for the nurse to finish taking vitals so he could visit, assess, and reprimand. As she exited the room, he gave her a perfunctory smile, catching the door as it swung behind her.

Just then, one of Mycroft’s staff appeared beside him. “Sir, we have an issue that needs immediate resolution.” He held out a mobile phone.

Mycroft sighed, glanced through the window in the door at his brother and John, and let the door close softly. He would have to postpone his reunion with his brother. He trusted that this interruption would not take up too much of his time.

~~~

When Mycroft returned, having successfully averted what could have been a foreign relations etiquette faux pas of epic proportions, his brother’s room was dark. He silently opened the door, mindful that his brother might be sleeping, and entered the room, then stopped abruptly.

John and Sherlock were motionless, the light from the doorway and the monitors the only illumination. Sherlock lay partially propped in his hospital bed, gowned and blanketed, an IV drip of saline in his left forearm. John sat in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed; his right hand was on Sherlock’s, and their fingers were twined together. John’s other hand curved against Sherlock’s cheek. Mycroft could only see the back of John’s head, which was turned toward Sherlock. Sherlock was looking at John. He looked pale — paler than usual — even in the bluish light of the monitors, but it was the expression on his face that gave Mycroft pause.

_Blazing. Radiant. Incandescent._

Mycroft had heard others described this way, but never in his life had he expected to use those words to describe his brother looking at another living human.

He wondered what John’s face looked like.

Just then, he recognized the quiet murmur of sound at the edge of his hearing as John’s voice. If he concentrated, Mycroft could just barely make out what John was saying.

“God, I thought my heart had stopped, when I saw you there, so still, with your curls hiding your face.” His hand moved, just a little, and Mycroft saw Sherlock press his cheek into the touch. “I was terrified that you were hurt, or...worse. I can’t do it again, Sherlock, so don’t...at least try not to, ok? Try not to get kidnapped, or- or run off alone like you do. You matter too much.” John’s voice broke, and he dropped his head onto their joined hands.

Mycroft made an involuntary movement, and he saw Sherlock’s eyes catch the light as they found him by the door. Mycroft didn’t speak. Looking wide-eyed at his brother, he opened the door and left as quietly as he’d come.


	39. 19 March (entry 5)

When I woke, it was a bit after midnight-- quiet, just middle-of-the-night hospital noises-- a trolley in the hallway outside, equipment beeping and clicking quietly, the nurses at the desk across the hall conversing in low voices. I moved—  a mistake. All my muscles ached, especially my arms, a soreness down my deltoids and biceps brachii, as a result of the position into which I'd been restrained. I grimaced with it, my limbs twitching slightly.

Then I felt a silky, soft weight stir against my right hand. I looked down.

"Hi," you said, blinking at me, your eyes sleepy, your smile slow and warm.  I felt my heart squeeze again —  it never fails to surprise me, physical impossibility that it is, yet it is the perfect descriptor of how I feel when you look at me in precisely that way. You looked at me, your emotions fresh on your face, and I suddenly felt lightheaded as well. Remarkable.

"They'll most likely discharge you later today," you said. You sat up a bit, shifting to crack your back, rolling your shoulders to loosen them from where they'd been in the same position too long. You shouldn't do that, fall asleep with your head on the bed and your back hunched over — I should have made you get on the bed with me; we could have curled up together, like spoons in a drawer, you behind me because you would need to keep me safe. I never understood the allure of spooning before I met you. It sounded silly. Now it sounds perfect. Delightful. You were holding my hand. I'm certain you hadn't let it go all night; you had been holding it, stroking it a little, when I had fallen asleep.

"We could leave now," I said, a little desperate. I hate being in hospital — being poked and examined by people I don't know, the smells, the clinical neatness, the impersonal institutionality, so unlike our flat — the seeping, horrid boredom that comes of such sterility and the lack of stimulation. I usually annoy or terrorize the nurses, and the doctors lose their patience with me quite quickly. Not you, though; at least, not now.

You chuckled. “You know I won’t let you leave until your doctor gives the all-clear. They need to be sure you’re hydrated properly, and that your electrolytes aren’t off-balance.”

I narrowed my eyes at you speculatively. "You're my doctor."

You shook your head and smiled. “Not for this, I’m not. There’s a little thing called conflict of interest — I’m too invested.” Your eyes were dark and soft. I fidgeted with the hospital bracelet on my right wrist, glancing over at you through my fringe. I want you. Your smile; I want it against my cheek, my mouth.

“You haven’t kissed me yet,” I said, abruptly, and looked away.

You laughed quietly, a happy sound. “Would you like me to?”

I turned my head back toward you, not quite looking at you. I felt as if I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Paralysis. Stupefaction. I felt a wave of relief when you spoke.

“I want to,” you said. “I’ve been wanting to. But first you were half-frozen, then you were half asleep, then you were all asleep. I didn’t think you’d want to miss it.”

I looked over at you, with my eyes this time. You were smiling just a little with your mouth, but your eyes were snapping with laughter, and your face held such joy that I felt a little shocked. How do you do that, throw me so off-balance, surprise me so easily with a simple expression?

“I didn’t—  don’t,” I said. “I’m awake now.” _Obvious_.

Your smile grew wider. “You certainly are.” You moved to get up, and my hand inadvertently tightened, not wanting to let you go. Ever. “Just getting us toothbrushes, and some water,” you said gently. “Lots of water, for you.” You rose, and you smiled down at me, and I felt very nervous and incredibly safe all at the same time. You squeezed my hand, and I let go of yours, finally, reluctantly, trailing my fingers along your hand until you were too far to reach. Touch. I had abjured it; now I craved it — from you —  I didn’t want to stop touching now that I had what amounted to your permission. Oh, god. The thought sent a warm shiver up the backs of my thighs and settled somewhere at the base of my spine. I watched as you made your way to the tiny en-suite in the corner of my room.

You turned the bathroom light on when you went in; it shone in your hair as you pilfered the shelves. My chest tightened deliciously. Another, stronger frisson chased through all the hairs on my body as I thought of what you had whispered in the ambulance — we would really do those things together, now, the glorious litany of sex I had written in the journal — _our_ journal. I would get to taste your secret places and give you my own. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly watering. We would have to talk about the journal eventually, I supposed, but for now —

“Here.” You were back with water and toothbrushes. The ordinary activities of toothbrushing seemed both grounding and fraught with meaning. We had done this together countless times, as flatmates sharing the bathroom, and although I had catalogued each of your habitual movements as a matter of course, this time gathered significance to itself as a magnet gathers metal filings. We brushed; I carefully spat into the cup you offered, feeling a bit self-conscious, then wiped my mouth on a corner of my gown. You offered me another cup of water, and I drank most of it, finding myself thirsty. You went to spit in the bathroom sink, running the water again. When you came out, you switched off the light.

You came and sat down in the chair next to my bed again. Your hand found mine and squeezed, then you immediately twined our fingers together again.

“God, I’m nervous.” You breathed out a shaky laugh. “I feel like a bloody teenager.” You rubbed a hand over your face and grinned. I noticed that you had a tiny bit of toothpaste on the corner of your mouth. I wanted to lick it off.

“You have a little— ” I said, motioning with my thumb at my own lip, showing you.

Your tongue slipped out and dabbed at the little white dot, and I hissed, frustrated — that was my job. Why did I even tell you? I could have catalogued that along with all the other parts of you brushing your teeth: what toothpaste tastes like on John. I pulled on our entwined hands, trying to get you closer, wanting to stop looking and start doing, for god’s sake.

“All right, all right, impatient,” you giggled. You surveyed the chair and the bed. “Now, how to do this properly?” You gave me a sharp glance, assessing. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” I snapped, then caught myself as you rolled your eyes.

“That’s not what I asked, Sherlock. Now, pretend I’m your doctor and not your bloody…boyfriend. How do you feel?”

“Marvelous,” I breathed, feeling lightheaded again, hearing that word on your tongue, god. I grabbed the word boyfriend in your voice and stored it safely where I’d be able to retrieve it at will whenever I wanted to. Needed to.

Your face softened again, and I thought that I had never seen anything so beautiful in this world as your blue eyes.

“If you’re not feeling dizzy, I’ll sit the bed all the way up.  It'll be easier.” You found the controls to the bed and pushed the button, sitting me up. It felt silly, but you were doing it, so that was ok. "Now budge up a bit."  I obligingly shifted over, and you sat on the bed, mattress creaking slightly at our combined weight. You put our clasped hands in your lap and looked at them, rubbing your thumb over the back of my hand.  Your hip was warm against mine. I felt nearly frantic with nervous anticipation; I couldn't sit still, and I kept smoothing the blanket, and giving your hand little erratic squeezes, and looking around the room, cataloguing: wardrobe- television- whiteboard- awful- curtains- radiator-

“Sherlock,” you said gently, and our eyes met with a shock like a whip crack and you leaned forward, and suddenly your arms were around me, your mouth was on mine, your hand was in my hair and oh god—

We kissed.

We _kissed_. It was gentle, and tentative, and tender, and not enough, god no — and yet it was almost too much. You were kissing me, moving your mouth across mine, just barely brushing our lips together, sweet, teasing. I felt all my muscles soften and liquefy and a slow flame suddenly bloomed in my gut and I made a kind of soft noise that made you tighten your arms — then I finally, finally slid my arms up, around your neck, feeling the pull of the IV and not caring, pulling you in closer and then your tongue touched my bottom lip and I was falling, falling, gasping, my skin blossoming with heat, my heart a pounding flutter, and I could feel you shaking, too.

Slow, so slow, and sweet. I lay back on the pillows, pulling you with me, and you pressed against me, and we carefully, carefully touched with lips and tongues, feeling each other’s breath, the way each of us was quivering, afraid, and longing.

Slow, and tender. That kiss dissolved us, changed us, into something more: from _almost_ to _become_ , from _soon_ to _now_ , from _maybe_ to _yes, always, yes_.


	40. 19 March (entry 6)

 

 

 

 

“Mycroft, stop _looming_ ,” I said, and I’m sure it was testily, as we mounted the front steps to 221 at last. My brother had fortuitously provided a car to take us home from hospital. Less fortuitously, he had accompanied us, and was in the process of inviting himself in by attempting to insert himself as a prop for my weakened self. Needless to say, I preferred using you for my human crutch; I didn’t really need assistance, but the feel of your sturdiness under my arm was reassuring. I felt the muscles shift in your shoulders when you opened the door, and all I wanted to do was fling you against the wall and have you, right there.

“Not in front of your brother,” you murmured under your breath, and I stared. You grinned back at me and said, “I’m not the only one whose emotions can show on his face, Sherlock.”

You astonish me. I cannot predict you. You are priceless.

Lestrade had accompanied us as well, and the four of us made our way awkwardly up the stairs to the flat. Mrs. Hudson came fluttering around, offering tea and cake, and we arrayed ourselves about the place; Mycroft stole your chair, as usual, and Lestrade took mine, so that left the sofa to us. I immediately lay down with my head in your lap, and Mycroft made tutting noises while Lestrade tried not to laugh and Mrs. Hudson looked at us as if we had been her idea in the first place. It was actually quite nice for a bit, until Mycroft opened his mouth not just for cake, and he and Lestrade got into an argument about some government thing or another, boring, and I shouted at them to get out. You scolded but your eyes were smiling again, and I couldn’t wait for them all to leave so that I could kiss you again.

“All right, Mr. Holmes, let’s leave these two lovebirds to their devices and see what else Mrs. Hudson has in her pantry, shall we?” Lestrade rose and grinned at Mycroft, who looked taken aback and also rather charmed, ugh, I really will have to delete that.

“Please, do call me Mycroft,” he said, smiling an oily little smile as they walked toward the stairs.

“He’s still married, Mycroft! And don’t forget to take Mrs. Hudson with you!” I called after them; she gave me a look and sort of snapped her apron at me as she followed them down the stairs.

She left the door open. Damn the woman.

“John,” I said, just to hear it, to hear the sound of your name on my lips and hear it between us, now, alone in our home. Home, John; it was lovely to be back here, after those past few days of drama and pain and fatigue, stupidity and irritation. And your daring rescue (well, yours and Lestrade’s and the SFO team’s) and our ambulance ride, with you, intense, whispering into my ear, and my stay in the hospital, culminating all in that kiss — god, the memory alone is mesmerising; I can feel a flush rise on my cheeks now at the thought of it.

“Sherlock,” you said, and there you were, looking down at me, smiling, your face intriguingly inverted as I lay in your lap. Your hand stroked my hair. And I was suddenly shy, nervous, and I rolled over, put my arms around your waist and shoved my face into the front of your jumper. I felt your stomach muscles vibrate with your chuckle. "I know," you said, and I relaxed a little; we could be awkward together. Your arms were warm around my shoulders; you had both hands in my hair, now, twining the strands around your fingers, pulling them gently straight and letting them go to bounce against my scalp.

I turned my head to look up at you past your jumper, and all of a sudden I was aware of where my head was, in your lap, and your eyes got wide and you stopped breathing for a few seconds. I moved my head in your lap a bit more, nuzzling in, and looked up at you and smiled.

"Wicked thing," you breathed, and pulled my hair a little. I closed my eyes at that; I didn't think that you pulling my hair would feel good, but it did, and I arched my back and wrapped my arms more tightly around your waist.

"I want you to take me to bed, John," I said, my voice a low rumble. I could feel you under my cheek, your cock getting half hard just from that, from my head on your lap and me saying I wanted you. I rubbed my head against you again, and you gave a little groan and grabbed my shoulders, pulling me up, and you were kissing me again.

This time it was hot and wet and glorious, all teeth and tongues and urgency, us wrapped around each other like eels, and I wondered briefly whether we'd make it into the bedroom at all. Then my brain went offline, and we kissed for a long time, and I can't remember exactly what we did but I do remember the feel of your breath, the wet slide of your tongue in my mouth, your teeth grazing my neck and drawing out my own groan. Then somehow you were lying down, and I was lying on you, and I was sucking on your clavicle, making a delicious little mark there, and you were panting in my ear. Both your hands were on my arse and you were undulating against me, moving just enough for a tease of friction.

Suddenly you picked your head up, eyes blazing, and said, "Upstairs. My bed."

I had to lie there for another moment, boneless, breathing, until I could get my legs under me. God, that tone of voice from you makes my knees buckle even when I’m prone. You helped me up the stairs — well, you had one hand on my arse and the other up under my shirt, pinching my nipple, and I suppose that was sufficient incentive because we moved fairly rapidly upwards, and I only tripped once.

Then we were in the doorway to your bedroom. I paused to look at the bed where I'd spent those few unhappy hours, where I had longed for you, and knew that although the memory would never entirely disappear, what we would do here, now, would make it at least bearable, a prelude instead of an end.

You disengaged from me, uncoiling yourself, and took both my hands in yours, just looking at me searchingly. "Do you need anything? Before we do this?" you asked softly.

I shook my head, wordless. We had showered at the hospital, and Mycroft had provided a change of clothing, so we were reasonably clean. I couldn't imagine that you didn't have supplies in your room — lubricant and condoms at least — but since my own room was only a short staircase away, I wasn't unduly concerned.

I wondered, though, what we would do here tonight, how this would unfold. I loved the look on your face — so open, your desire and affection clear. I hoped mine showed as clearly how I felt about you, after so long being hidden. I wanted to do everything with you, to you, wanted to explore you, map you, catalogue and categorise you.

You pulled me close, letting go of my hand to put yours on the nape of my neck, pressing us together. I curled my arm around you and shivered — it was still so new, to be able to touch you in this way. I wanted — I didn’t know what I wanted.

 _You_ knew. You knew what you wanted, and somehow you knew what I wanted as well. Your hand threaded into my hair again, pulled, and I gasped as your lips caressed my neck just under my ear and your tongue traced circles over my pulse point.

“I want you,” you said, breathing on my damp neck and sending a chill racing through me. “God, I want you. Your body, your mind — Sherlock.” My eyes closed as you said my name, and your palm suddenly pressed against the front of my trousers. I was mostly hard, and your breath caught as you felt my erection stiffen against your hand. “I want all of you.” You kissed my neck again, that slow drag of your lips making me shudder and moan, and I needed to clutch myself to you to stay upright. You laughed quietly, and at the feel of that laugh against my skin, through your lips, I staggered, falling, and you caught me and propelled me the few steps to lie across your bed.

I lay back, my head nearly reaching the wall. “I still have my clothes on.” I moved to sit up, but you knelt over me, your palm on my chest.

“Yes, obviously,” you said, smiling,  and your eyes gleamed. “We are going very, very slowly tonight, Sherlock.” Your knees were to either side of my thighs, and with the weight of your hand on me I felt anchored, claimed, safe. You reached over and clicked on your bedside lamp, then moved to lie next to me, on your right side, your arm propping your head up, looking down at me. “I want to undress you, one piece of clothing at a time, and kiss every bit of skin as I reveal it.” You bent and touched your nose to mine, a little nuzzle, then kissed me.

I followed your mouth up helplessly as you broke the kiss; I wanted to lose myself in you again, in the liquid slide of your tongue. My hand came up to stroke your hair — I couldn’t tangle my fingers in yours, but the feel of it silky between my fingers was delightful. I grabbed and tugged as well as I could, and you laughed and quickly kissed me again. “Fast learner.”

I lay and looked up at you; I swallowed, amazed, overcome. Never in my life had I believed that being in bed with someone could be...fun. It had been awkward, painful, perfunctory, rough, and at times ecstatic, but the thought of laughter being part of sex was difficult for me to grasp. Of course it would be like that, with you — you are filled with humour, John, and you see it so often where I miss it. I hope I can learn to let go, like you do, and deeply enjoy these moments with you. I was learning already, then, I think.

You looked back at me, and the expression that slowly replaced your smile made me want to writhe. God, John, that look — hunger, and desire, and what looked like awe — I lay there and basked in it like a cat in the sunshine. It was so much of what I thought I could never have; it was your regard, and your affection — you had said it, last night, you had said those words that I was so afraid to say to you now. So I tried again to put it all on my face, love and desire, for you to see, a mirror of your own feelings.

“God, Sherlock,” you said, nearly growled, in fact, and then your hands were on me again, against my face, in my hair, and you were lying on top of me and kissing me and it was so good, the pressure of your weight on me, my arms around you, and I felt as if my bones were dissolving and I was making little whimpering noises into your mouth that had you growling again. I wrapped my legs around yours and arched up into you with a cry, because I felt as if I could come right then, from the completely overwhelming feeling of you touching me, and we still had our bloody shoes on.

“Oh, no you don’t,“ you said, sitting up abruptly, leaving me cold and wanting, and stripping off your jumper in one lightning motion. Before I could react, your hands were on my shoulders; you pushed my jacket aside and partway down my arms until it got stuck, and since you couldn’t wait you leaned forward and ran your tongue over my lips and I shuddered because my god, the feeling of you holding me there with my jacket pulling at my arms, captive and yet so willing, ready to yield to you. I squirmed under you and you fisted your hands in my sleeves, and I threw my head back and gave you my neck in surrender.

You made a shocked little noise, like you had taken a hit to the chest, and then your mouth was on my neck and your hands were pulling at my shirt, ripping it out of my trousers and fumbling at the buttons, and your mouth, god, your lips and tongue and teeth were on me, neck, shoulders, collarbones, and as you pushed my shirt aside at last you swore softly under your breath and stopped, then kissed each of my nipples once, very tenderly. I was trembling and I couldn’t stop making noises every time you touched me, which was all the time, and my hands scrabbled at your shirt and you practically ripped it off yourself, then tore off your vest and pressed down onto me.

The shock of your warm skin against mine was intense. I heard myself cry out, distantly, as if I was somewhere else, a breathy, needy whine, and I couldn’t pull you to me because I was trapped still by my clothing. You cupped my face in your hands, kissing me again and again, licking at my mouth and using your maddening little tongue to wring even more moans of pleasure from me. I could just reach your hips, enough to press my fingertips into you and coax you downwards, towards that sweet friction through our trousers of our cocks moving together. I used my legs wrapped around yours to grind my pelvis upwards, feeling the chafe and heat and rub, skin and cloth together.

“I like it when you squirm,” you breathed in my ear, using your own leverage to push down, rewarding me with the swipe of your tongue across my shoulder and into the hollow of my throat, dipping and lingering there, then nibbling along the line of my neck to my jaw and nipping just under my ear.

“I want to see you, Sherlock.” You sat up on my thighs and smoothed your palms down my chest. “Let’s get this jacket off you.” I whined a wordless protest, but you gently eased your arm under me, helping me sit up while you disengaged my arms from the sleeves, jacket and shirt. “How are your shoulders feeling?” you asked, and I shrugged in illustration, rolling them a bit, wincing with the slight burn. My freedom of movement was adequate, and you grinned as I fell back on the bed. “Good. Means I won’t hurt you when I hold your wrists down.”

Oh god. My eyes closed involuntarily and I shivered. I could feel my nipples peak as gooseflesh rippled over my chest, and in a nearly Pavlovian response my head tipped back again as I abandoned myself to you.

“Yeah, I thought so,” you murmured, stroking down my arms, dragging your fingers under the waistband of my trousers, undoing the fastening, button, and zip. I shivered deliciously, both at your touch and the implications of your words. My John, the Army doctor. Seeing so clearly all the hidden parts of me, the vulnerabilities. I’ve never allowed anyone to take control, not completely. With you, though — ah, John, I want it. So badly.

“Not rough, no,” you murmured, as if to yourself. “Not tonight, anyway. Slow, and gentle.” You kissed me, your mouth opening mine. “Sweet, and soft, and absolutely fucking perfect.” You drew my bottom lip into your mouth and sucked. “That’s how it will be, tonight, Sherlock.” With a last flick of your tongue, you moved away. You crouched to one side and tugged on my trouser legs. “Now lift.”

I lifted my hips, and you slid my trousers down, climbing off the bed to do so, shucking shoes and socks as you slipped them over my feet, one at a time. God, I was so hard, and the y-fronts of my black silk pants were wet, and you slid your palms up the front of my legs as you crawled back over me, and you grabbed my hips and lowered your head between my legs and rubbed your face over my cock and I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. My hands were clenched in the duvet and my shoulders ached from the strain of keeping my hips from bucking up into your face.

“God, you smell so good.” You let go of my hips to peel my pants down, just uncovering my erection, and I moaned shamelessly as your tongue flicked over the head of my cock. “I want to touch every part of you with my tongue. My teeth. Write John Watson on your skin.” You darted your head to the side and nipped my inner thigh, and I yelped. “I’m going to keep you here, in this bed, so long that you won’t be able to tell our scents apart. Until you can’t breathe without smelling me on you, and everyone will know that you’re _mine_.”

“Oh, god, John...”

“Yes. I want to hear you.” You moved up again and kissed me, demanding. I could smell my pre-ejaculate on you, and it made me grab at you possessively, winding my arms around you and kissing, biting and licking, my turn now to taste you. Your neck was the perfect essence of you, soft and hot and with a bit of stubble, and I breathed on that sensitive spot just under your ear and you bit back a moan.

“John.” Your name was all I could say, and even that came out in a hitch and catch of breath, broken and trembling. The heavy weight of you on top of me was making me lose all volition; I just wanted to lie there forever, feeling you press me into your bed, wanton and moaning.

You slid down again and off the bed, and shucked your jeans and pants along with your trainers. Your cock was thick and hard, purplish at the tip, and I wanted to touch it, kiss it, I wanted you to fuck my mouth while I knelt in front of you, with your hands in my hair, pulling, holding my head as you came. I was half upright before I realised it, my breathing hard and fast, and I could feel my own cock aching.

“Oh, love, look at you.” Your eyes were heavy as you knelt at the edge of the bed. “God, if I had ever doubted you wanted me....” You hooked your fingers under the waistband of my pants and pulled them down and off. My cock twitched and you smiled, your tongue between your teeth; you reached out and slid your palm up over the length, sliding fingers and thumb around the glans, brushing your thumb over my slit and the bead of semen clinging there. I couldn’t help it; I thrust up into your hand, god, John, you were touching me and every single sensation in my body centered on that one point.

I felt your hand on my cheek, then, blazing another connection between us. “Here, love, move up this way.” You pushed me gently toward your pillow, and I lay back again, and I pulled you down on top of me, between my legs, and I felt as if every inch of my skin was on fire as your body touched mine. You kissed me, slow and searching and languid, and rolled your hips against mine and I could feel the silken skin of your cock as you moved against me, against my hip, then sliding until we slotted together, perfect, in the perfect rhythm you set, as slow and languid as our kiss, an infinitesimally steady buildup that had me quivering and panting and hardly able to hold on to you.

I didn’t resist as you took first one arm, then the other, and moved them so my wrists were crossed above my head. I could feel the flush move from my chest up to my cheeks, but I was beyond embarrassment, caught up in your blue eyes on mine, the movement of your hands on my body, the shivers that followed where you touched. You pushed yourself up, holding my wrists with one hand; as I felt your weight there, I went limp, breathing fast and shallow, then arched up into your touch with a moan as you grasped both our cocks together. The cool touch of lubricant startled me, but only as a distant question, and as you began to move your hand my vision narrowed until all I could see was your face. Your eyes were intent on mine, dark with need, and I watched your lips moving as you whispered.

“God, do you like that, Sherlock? Do you like me holding you down? Oh god. Your face, you’re so beautiful, god love, yes, like that, just there, that’s right, love, I want to see you, gorgeous, I want to watch you come, come for me, Sherlock, come for me now, oh god, yes — “

I cried out, a sound like bliss and agony, sobbing through my orgasm as the storm of sensation wrung every possible tremor from my body, arching under you, god, John, so perfect, you touching me, white stripes of my come painting us both, your belly, my chest, and our cocks were touching, incredibly, perfectly, and then you were coming too and I was holding you as you shuddered and gasped and came, beautifully, all over me.

 

 

 

 


	41. 19 March (entry 7)

 

 

 

“Open your eyes, love.” Your voice was husky, gentle. I felt your hand stroke my hair off my forehead and turned my face, nuzzling into your hand. My eyes fluttered open. There you were. It was nothing short of miraculous to me — you, here, with me, and we had just orgasmed together. I had a difficult time believing that this was real and not my fantasy, not my overwrought imagination.

“Hello.” Your eyes crinkled as you smiled down at me. You were up on one elbow, looking down at me. Your hair was tousled and your shoulders were relaxed. You looked absolutely breathtaking. “You’re back.”

I cleared my throat tentatively. “Mostly.” My voice was still rough from screaming. I tended to be very vocal during sex, and you seemed to have brought out new and remarkably loud permutations of my tendency. Combined with the utterly unexpected shyness I suddenly felt, this thought made the heat rise in my face. I couldn’t meet your eyes; instead, I closed mine again and tried to bury my face in the crook of your arm. Absurd. I’d never been shy about sex before; indeed, some have accused me of being too cavalier. Now? I stuttered like a schoolgirl, wanting your attention, wanting to be invisible.

“It’s all right, Sherlock.” You pushed your fingers into my hair and tugged until I looked back at you. “I’m having a hard time believing this as well. It’s so — well, it’s so sudden, and yet it’s been going on since we met — it’s like I can't accept that it's real because I've been dreaming about it for so long. We'll have to settle into it, I think." You smiled, slowly. "Bed will help."

I shivered. You noticed, and chuckled softly. "I had no idea, Sherlock. No idea you'd be so...responsive." You ran your fingers down my arm, and I pushed closer, craving your touch. "I thought you'd want to be in control, since you're so controlled out in the world." You circled my wrist with your fingers, gently. "I'm so glad I was wrong. This, I know how to do." Your hand tightened, just a bit, and I bit back a tiny moan. God, you are perfect.

You reached across me and grabbed your discarded vest, which had somehow landed next to us on the bed, and wiped us both down. Your touch was a caress; you were gentle and sure and unembarrassed, and I settled back, relaxing into the motions of your hand.

I wanted to dissolve right there, wanted you so badly so soon after, wanted you to put your hands on me, wanted wanted wanted. I rolled a bit, squirming, and winced as I took my weight onto one side.

"I knew it couldn't be that easy." You rolled me gently onto my back again and stroked your hands over my aching shoulders. "You're still feeling some pain, aren't you? It must be long past time for you to take more paracetamol." You looked me over critically. "You lie here for a moment. I'll take care of you, love." You rose from the bed, and I followed you with my eyes, not speaking, but _wanting_. "I'll just get the pills and some water, then we'll see about your poor shoulders." You carefully pulled the duvet out from under me and covered me up, tucking it up around my neck. I nearly purred as warmth surrounded me, and you smiled over your shoulder as you walked naked through the door.

I could hear you pounding down the stairs and fussing about in the bathroom and kitchen; I drifted in a haze of contentment, waiting. This was new. Other lovers had taken, but never given; I hesitated to call them lovers, even — perhaps sexual partners was more appropriate. You, though; you took care of me — you called me love, and said you loved me. I lay there replaying your words in my head, warm and safe and pleasantly drowsy. I felt a bit overwhelmed by you, by this sudden sparking collision of us — the way we meshed seemed seamless and perfect and right. I wanted it, god, I did, and I wanted so very badly to believe that you wanted it, too. Your attention, your care, your acknowledgement of my fears and recognition of your own — these went a long way toward reassuring me about what we now shared. I lay there in the blankets, feeling their warmth as an extension of you, trying to calculate by your movements below when you would return, and slipping into a half-doze instead.

I roused a little as I heard you coming up the stairs.

“Still awake, love?” I felt your weight on the bed, and your hand on my shoulder over the duvet. “I’ve brought you the paracetamol. Sit up and you can take it.”

You helped me sit up with a hand under my back, handing me the pills and water and tucking the duvet around me. I swallowed the pills obediently, feeling quite coddled. I imagine that it satisfied your urge to care, one that I’d been the beneficiary of countless times before.

You moved to sit behind me, leaning against the headboard, and said, “Lean back on me, Sherlock. Relax. Let’s have a little cuddle.” You pushed your legs under the duvet to either side of me and pulled me close against you, against your warm, naked skin. God, it was delicious. The warmth, the feel of you, the way your arms tightened around me just enough. I sank into you, melted against you, felt your hand in my hair and your lips on my brow.

“John.” I sighed your name, a benediction, and turned to you, sitting across your lap, my arms stealing around you. I tucked my head under your chin; you rested your head on mine, and I could feel your smile against my hair. Glorious.

You started whispering to me, against my hair, making the curls stir with your breath. "I'm going to give you a bit of a massage first, then we're going to get in the shower to clean up and warm your muscles more. I want you relaxed. I have waited years to be inside you, Sherlock, and I’m not going to wait any longer, but I don't want to hurt you. You want it, and god knows I want you, but we’ll have to go slowly." You held me tighter, and I sighed, almost a whimper, as liquid desire flowed through me, and I curled into you even more. I lifted my head to mouth softly at your neck, just my lips, my eyes closed, feeling your pulse beat.

“God, Sherlock.” You shuddered, tilting your head back and tugging at my hair, pulling me closer. I moaned into your neck, trying to fit myself closer to you, sucking harder into your skin and swirling my tongue, tasting salt. “God. It’s so soon, and I’m ready to fuck you right now. Your body — oh, love, I want to touch all of you. Kiss you everywhere.” Your arms loosened, and your hands skimmed over me, sending skittery electric traces over my skin. I could feel you hardening against my hip, and I arched against you, craving you, the thought of you inside me making me whimper again with blind lust. God, _John_. I want you, I wanted you, I want you again. Always.

“Okay, love. We’re going slowly tonight, remember?” You gave a breathless chuckle. “Let me get to those shoulders of yours, now that the paracetamol has started to work. Lie down right here; I’ll move.”

“Kiss me first, John? Please?” It was a breathless, broken whisper, but you heard. You moved out from under me, laid my head gently on the pillow, and kissed me, so sweetly, so softly that I couldn’t stop shaking, the quiver in my voice coming out in the soft cries I made against your mouth. God, your kisses — I had never been kissed like that before in my life. I never, ever want you to stop. Please don’t stop.

You finally raised your head, and I opened my eyes. Yours were still closed, as if you were savoring the kiss, blissful in contemplation. It is my new life’s ambition to make you look like that as much as possible. When your eyes opened, blue so dark as to be navy, I had to kiss you again, eyes open this time, capturing your reaction. Your lashes against your cheeks are my idea of heaven.

“Sherlock,” you sighed, and the perfect sound of my name on your lips made me smile, giddy with love. I love you. I hadn’t said it, yet — haven’t said it, but I will. You know I will.

You sat up at last, and smiled at me again. “Turn over on your front, love, I want to get at those shoulders.”

I rolled, obedient for you, catching the pillow under my arms, and you pulled the duvet down to the foot of the bed, kneeling up next to me. You had found some massage oil in your foray downstairs and you began by smoothing it over my back, my sore muscles reacting immediately to the warmth of your palms. I was very relaxed already, and the oil soaking into my skin, gliding under your hands, made me boneless.

You kneaded my sore muscles expertly; I hadn’t known you possessed that talent. You are a never-ending source of wonder and delight. I drifted, again, knowing that you held me both captive and safe, with the tiny spike of knowledge that soon you would be inside me keeping me from collapsing completely and falling into a deep sleep. As I thought of us, of you penetrating me, of me writhing under you in pleasure, I felt the warmth pool low in my abdomen and spread, and I couldn’t help but move, pressing my growing erection into the sheets, and I heard the hiss of your inhale. I felt a dribble of oil at the small of my back, and your fingers traced it down between my buttocks, your touch so light I almost couldn’t feel it except for the warmth. I moaned a little and pressed up into your hand, clutching the pillow under my face, wanting to feel you touching me.

“God, Sherlock,” you breathed, and suddenly straddled my thighs, your hands grasping my arse and massaging. I could feel your cock hard against me, and you leaned forward, rubbing yourself over me, pushing against my crack, and I pushed back against you, whining.

“I want to fuck you. I want to come inside you. I want you to come without being touched. I’m going to make you come that way. God, you’re a fucking _fantasy_ , Sherlock, I’ve been thinking about this for so long, and god it’s so much better than I imagined — you under me, begging for it, wanting me to fuck you.” Your hand slid up my back, oiled and warm, and grabbed the nape of my neck as you continued to slide your cock just over the end of my spine, grinding into me. It felt so good, you holding me, pressing me down, and I realised I was making small yearning noises, wanting you to just pull my hips back and slam into me.

“God, I’m going to spend hours on you. I want my fingers inside you first, up against the side of the shower while I bite the back of your neck. I’ll get you nice and clean, wash you all over, drag my fingers through your hair and pull. I’ll make you kneel on the tile and suck me while I do that. Then we’ll dry each other off, and I’ll bring you back in here.”

“John!” I was so very close, so close to coming, just from hearing you, from you listing the things you wanted to do to me in your soft voice. You must have heard how close I was, because suddenly your weight was off me, off the bed, and I heard you taking deep breaths. I lay there, nearly sobbing, willing myself not to come.

“Don’t move, Sherlock. Keep still.” I stopped my hips from thrusting into the bed and heard you sigh. “Good. Now, turn over. I want to see you.”

I took a moment to recover, then rolled carefully over, stretching out, pushing the pillow to the side and raising my arms further above my head, making sure you could see all of me, like you wanted. You were standing by the bed, your cock in your fist, and I watched your eyes travel up and down my body as you slowly stroked yourself.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” you whispered, and I complied, moving my knees apart. “So beautiful,” you murmured. “So gorgeous, love. To see you like this, god, spread out for me, waiting. Knowing that soon I’ll be inside you.” You took a deep, shuddering breath. “I need to be inside you. Can you stand? Here, I’ll help you.” You put an arm around my shoulders as I sat up on the edge of the bed, and helped me to rise. It was good that you were there; my knees were so weak I would have crumpled to the floor had I tried to keep myself upright.

The combination of your warmth and the oil still on your hands and my skin made me want to writhe against you, to rut and thrust until I came on you again. Instead, I came obediently with you to the shower, where you propped me against you as you reached and turned on the water.

“Only a moment now, love.” You smiled at me and leaned to kiss me, your tongue teasing against my lips, opening me again to search my mouth.

You put your hand on the back of my neck and pulled me in. This kiss was hot, and wet, and filthy, all nipping teeth and stroking, demanding tongue. Your arms went around me again, hard, and you groaned into my mouth as your hands clenched on my arse.

"God, you have the most gorgeous arse on the planet," you gasped, digging your fingers in. "I can't keep my hands off it now that I've got it." Then you licked your tongue into my mouth again as if those few seconds had been far too long, as if I was the air you were breathing. All your attention, all your concentration, was on me. I was dizzy with the joy of it.

You broke the kiss at last, far too soon, and I clung to you as you opened the shower door, not wanting to let you go even for an instant. You smiled at me again and bundled me in. The smile was slow and wicked, and the darkness in your gaze hinted of the promise you'd made earlier.

I felt every fingertip where they rested on my hip, and I wanted them gripping me hard enough to leave marks. God, the outline of your fingertips on my skin, where I could look down or in the mirror and see them-- I nearly fell into the shower wall thinking about it. You had broken me, John, with your tenderness and care, had reduced me to a shivering wreck, begging for your touch with the soft whimpers that were all the sounds I could manage. I strained against the wall, legs parted, hips canted backward, waiting.

You didn't disappoint me. You were right there behind me, pressed against me, your fingers trailing down my back again, this time to delve into the crack of my buttocks. You wound your other hand around my waist and bit my shoulder, and I jerked back against you. Your fingers slid further, touching the puckered bud of my anus, and I cried out again, wordless at the feel of your hand at my entrance, as I had so often dreamed. Your fingers were slick, and as your fingertip gently massaged, I could feel myself ready for you. I pushed back; just the first fraction slid in, opening me, and I had to press my forehead to the cool tile and bite my lip to keep from impaling myself on your finger. God, just the feel of you, just that tiny bit, almost made me come. I was rock-hard and shaking, and you laughed, a dark, breathy chuckle.

"You are so gorgeous, love, so open and ready for me," you growled, and pushed your finger in the slightest amount. "Hold still," you said, as I threatened to shove backwards again. God, it was so good, and your finger was barely inside me-- what would it do to me to have two fingers, three, your cock? You slid in further, and I could feel another finger, just there, as you twisted and pulled and then oh god, two fingers, god, John, you were inside me, and I wanted more and more, wanted you to press me against the shower wall and fuck me, wanted another finger there, beside the first two, craved the stretch and burn.

"John," I said again, nearly a groan, begging you to do something, anything. Wanting you. Feeling you against me, the warm water rushing over us, as you moved your fingers again, gently.

"Sherlock." Your voice in my ear was a whisper; I could barely hear you over the sound of the water, over the sound of the blood beating in my ears. You grabbed my hair, then, pulling my head back away from the shower wall, biting the juncture of my neck and shoulder. I felt you begin to withdraw your fingers and pressed backwards, trying to maintain that contact.

"Turn around," you murmured, soft as falling water, and I did, slowly, bracing myself against the tile. You slid against me, wet and warm, cupped my face in your hand and kissed me again, a light brush of lips. "Let's wash you up." You had a flannel ready, and you grabbed it and my soap and began to wash my body. Your expression of concentration, absorption, was fascinating; you seemed to want to learn my body as avidly as I wished to examine yours. Remarkable. You smoothed your soapy hands over every part of me from neck to knees, lifting my arms and instructing me to part my legs for your access. I shivered as the flannel brushed my cock, and moaned as you reached around to slide your hand between my legs. You even washed my hair, using my own shampoo and conditioner, smoothing it into my hair and making sure nothing got in my eyes.

You finished washing me, using the flannel to help rinse the last remnants of soap from my shoulders.

"Now me," you said, smiling, and I could hardly grab the flannel fast enough with my shaking hands. I washed you carefully, following each pass of the washcloth over your skin with a kiss. I reached around you to wash your back, holding you close, and you sighed and pressed against me; we were both still hard, and I could feel the jut of your erection against my thigh. I waited until your eyes were on mine, then, as slowly as I could, I lowered myself to my knees in front of you.

I gave you one last, blazing look from under my lashes, then tucked my head down, put my hands on my knees, and waited. I shivered slightly at my own audacity; you had not commanded, but I felt I wanted to determine whether I could predict your wishes. I thought this would please you.

I was right.

 

 

 


	42. 19 March (entry 7 cont'd)

I felt your hand on my head; you stroked my wet hair, once, then your fingers grabbed and tangled and you yanked my head back. I looked up into your face. Your jaw was clenched, and your eyes were so dark and dangerous only your fist in my hair kept me upright.

“Do you really want this?” you asked, your voice strained, and tightened your grip. I closed my eyes, swallowing; when I finally opened them, I opened my mouth as well. You looked down at me, the look on your face almost incredulous, at odds with your dark eyes, as if you wanted but didn’t dare, as if you couldn’t believe that this was something I’d want.

Daring, I put my hands on your thighs, leaned forward until my mouth was close to your cock; you swayed forward, wanting. Still looking into your eyes, I moved, so slowly, so you still had the opportunity to refuse me, although I knew you wanted this, wanted to fuck my mouth, wanted to see and feel my lips wrapped around you, to be in command of the way you used me. I opened wider, inviting, and with a strangled sob you touched the head of your cock to my lips.

God, John, your taste — diluted by the falling water, still you were exquisite, and I moaned as I sucked you deeper, closing my eyes. You wanted to be inside me soon, so I took you as far in as I could; I knew that you would stop me when you were close, and I wanted to feel as much of you as possible in the short time I had. Your hand in my hair was gentle, and I moved off you slowly, then swirled my tongue and sucked you down, so very slowly, hoping that you would lose control and shove into me, longing for you to take me in that way. You were so very hard, and I could feel your muscles shaking as you willed yourself not to come, not to break and thrust and _own_. God, I wanted you to, and so I opened my mouth until I was just lightly, lightly touching your cock with my lips, my tongue, skimming your sensitive glans, flicking my tongue to taste the pre-come there.

Your hips shifted, and I heard you groan, my name stuttering from your lips. I felt your fist tighten in my hair, and then oh god you were pushing into me, controlling me, jerking your hips and holding my hair and it was so good, John, I wanted so badly for you to come down my throat but you thrust several times and then pulled away, gasping, letting go of my hair and backing against the cool tile on the opposite side of the shower. I could taste you in my mouth.

“God, Sherlock,” you groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.” You looked down at me as I knelt there, and your face softened. “Let’s get out of the shower and get dried off. I want to get you back into my bed.” You moved over to me, put your hand under my arm, and pulled me up as you shut off the shower.

You had towels ready, and we took turns drying each other off, a bit awkwardly, and with smiles and laughter. God, John, this is so easy, with you. So natural. I look in your eyes and see not calculation but honesty, affection, desire. I want to lose myself there, in the knowing, in the feeling, in the bliss of what I know is your love for me.

At that moment, however, I wanted to be in your bed, with your hands on me, your mouth on me. I scrambled to get dry, my hair curling in every direction, yours standing in spikes on your head, as we rubbed and stroked and clung. Such a simple act, yet so intimate, and indicative of such love — I adored it. I hope we do it often.

And then, we climbed the stairs again, together, naked this time and hair dripping, our hands clasped tightly. You drew me into your room and pulled me to you, into a kiss at first gentle and then more demanding. We pressed together, and your hands swept down my back, settling on my hips, and pushed me backwards towards your bed. God, John, I wanted you, and I saw that same desire in your eyes again.

“Lie on the bed, love,” you murmured against my lips. I lay down on my back again, on top of the covers this time, my damp head on your pillow. You followed me, kneeling above me, reaching to your bedside table and opening the drawer.

“I won’t take any chances with you, this first time,” you said softly. “We’ll both need to be tested, love.” You smiled at me, taking any sting from your words, although I felt none. Eminently practical, John, and in line with my own feelings. I wanted to feel you inside me with nothing between us, but that could wait. For now, I just wanted you, however you were comfortable. This was acceptable to both of us.

You got out condoms and lubricant, laying them on the bed next to us. I moved to roll over and you stopped me.

“No, love,” you said softly. “This first time, I want to see your face. I want to watch you watching me. I want to see you come. I need that.” You stopped and took a deep breath, and your voice shook when you spoke again. “God, Sherlock. I love you. I want you so badly. I know this isn’t going to last long, probably not for either of us, and I want us to look — to see — to look into each other’s eyes. I need that.” You looked searchingly at my face, wanting my reaction, looking for approbation.

“Yes, John.” I held my arms out, waiting, wanting.

You moved into them, kissing me, kissing my neck, then moving to kiss down the length of my chest, rubbing your face against me as if you couldn’t feel enough of my skin. You nuzzled into my groin, briefly, enough for your hot breath to make my cock twitch, then kissed the inside of my thigh. My breath hitched as you got your shoulders under one leg, then the other, and you pushed upwards to open me, your hands on my thighs, my feet flat on the duvet.

I cried out as I felt your tongue, touching just at my perineum, teasing. So gentle, yet insistent, you traced tiny circles on the skin around my anus, then all at once licked a broad stripe upwards from tailbone to perineum. God, it was intense, hot and wet and smooth and rough at once, and I writhed and moaned and clutched at the duvet with my hands. You hummed a little, considering, then concentrated your attention, circling my hole, darting in with your tongue then retreating, teasing me. I felt your breath on me, wanted to push onto you, wanted you to just take me; you were making my body shake, and I needed to feel you deeper, wanted so much more. You pushed in with the tip of your tongue, just a little, and I felt myself open to you, so ready. I both heard and felt you groan as you pushed in further, god, thrusting with your tongue, all the nerves in my body tingling with sensation, your lips and tongue setting my entire body alight.

With a last kiss you withdrew, and I lay panting as you opened a condom and retrieved the lubricant.

“I want you to help me, Sherlock,” you said, breathless. “I want you to put it on me.”

I sat up, a bit uncoordinated, and took the condom packet from you. Putting it on you was one of the most intensely intimate sexual experiences of my life. I kissed you first, just a brush of my lips on yours; then I took the lube bottle, squeezing a small drop onto the head of your cock, using my finger to smooth it over and down the sides. I rolled the condom over and down, stroking the length of you, and I looked up and into your eyes. They were keen, focused, full of desire and love, and I kissed you again, trying to convey with my body all that I couldn’t yet say.

You lay me back on the pillow, your hand behind my head, and swept my lips with your tongue, asking me to open for you. I was ready, god, so ready, and I wanted you inside me desperately. You pressed the lubricant bottle into my hand and I fumbled with it, trying to get some out and keep contact with your lips at the same time. You chuckled into my mouth and sat up.

“It's okay, god, just let me,” you said, snapping the cap and squeezing lube into your hand. You slicked your cock with one smooth motion, twisting up to the head. Then you watched, rapt, as you stroked your wet fingers over my anus, pushing slightly in, and I moaned again as one finger slid in with no resistance.

“Sherlock,” you breathed, and twisted out, pushing in another finger, getting me ready for you. “God, you’re so open. I need to be inside you, I need it now. Need to feel you.” You knelt above me, looking down the length of my body, watching my face.

“John, yes, god, I’m ready, please,” I said, pleading, and lifted my hips in invitation. You slid your hands up under my thighs again, pushing them up and back towards my chest, and leaned forward. I twined my legs around you, not over your shoulders but around your waist, because I knew I wanted to kiss you, to reach your face, to see your eyes as you came.

I felt the head of your cock at my entrance and willed myself to relax, bearing down as you slowly pushed. I watched as you bit your lip and closed your eyes and eased into me. We were both trembling, breathless, and as you seated yourself fully, we kissed and clung and twined, wanting to be closer. God, the feeling of you inside me — the stretch and heat and fullness — I was so very close, and your face, your voice murmuring to me, brought me closer every second.

"God, Sherlock, you're so tight, so hot, god, I'm so close already, I could come just from being inside you, just like this." I felt your breath, hot and uneven on my cheek, and I arched under you, straining for more contact. You pressed me down, slid your face against mine, mouthing at my neck, my cheek. "I want to watch you while I'm inside you, gorgeous, god, want to make you come, want to feel you, see you, like this, for me."

Then you began to move, and my body writhed and shuddered under the assault of sensation. You stroked, once, twice, found your rhythm and sent shocks searing through me as your cock slid over my prostate. I moaned and panted into your mouth as you kissed me, and your murmurs began to stutter as you neared your own climax.

"Watch you — god, you're so fucking beautiful — come for me — come for me, now—”

And I felt the white heat rise and burn through me, and I screamed your name, tightening around you, pulsing, helpless as you continued to stroke into me, my come arcing over both of us as I shattered beneath you, sobbing with the strength of my orgasm. I kept my eyes open and on your face as best I could, and you looked back with a kind of possessive wonder. You thrust once more and stopped, eyes wide, building until you were on the very brink — then your back arched and you came, shouting, shaking, my name on your lips and your eyes on mine.

When I could move I pulled you down again, holding you as you quivered against me, until the aftershocks had faded for both of us. We kissed again, sweetly, our desperation blunted in the glow of satiety. I wanted to keep you inside me forever, but at last you pulled away, binning the condom and grabbing the towel you'd brought from downstairs to clean us both up.

You finally tossed the towel on the floor and came to me and we lay there, together in your bed, holding each other, kissing slowly, savoring each point of contact. There was both laziness and excitement, somnolence and expectation, as each of us became more sure of the other, exchanging murmured thoughts; both fears and desires became clearer as our bond transformed, changed its nature, and strengthened in the process. We fell asleep there at last, you and I, curled around each other, as the late afternoon faded into evening and your lamp took over from the sun.


	43. 19 March (entry 7 cont'd)

I woke to the feel of your arms wrapped around me, your lips pressing kisses to my nape. It was the small hours of the night, your bedside lamp still casting shadows over the rumpled bed. At first there was a stirring and a stretching, a slow twining and moving against each other, fumbling under the warm covers for each others' hands. You flung your leg over mine, and I could feel your stiff cock press against my arse as you pulled me to spoon into you, our hands clasped together on my chest.

"Hello, love," you murmured, your breath against my skin. “How are you feeling?”

I sighed, pressing more firmly against you, bending back my neck to allow you greater access. “Remarkably well, considering,” I said, and my voice was a cracked rumble that sounded indecently satisfied.

You chuckled, moving against me with a slow roll of your hips. “How much better would you like to feel?” you breathed, biting gently at my shoulder. "You'll need to choose a safeword."

"Yes, John." I tried to breathe, feeling unsteady, loving the imbalance. "My safeword is — _marshmallow._ ”

Your tongue touched the nape of my neck. I shuddered and arched, suddenly ready.

“John.” My breath was gone, my skin tingling; how do you dissolve me so completely with a touch? I wanted to melt into you, become you.

“God, say that.” You ground your hips into me, mouthing my shoulder blade, rasping your stubble against my back. “Say that again.” You nipped sharply.

“John!” Louder, with a hint of desperation. I heard your breath quicken, and your hand slipped down over my stomach, fingers lightly dragging, then circling my cock. You stroked, then you bit my shoulder again, hard, thrusting your hips forward, and I was caught between those three points of contact, not knowing whether to push or arch or press backward.

“Sherlock,” you sighed in my ear, then suddenly your hand disappeared and you rolled onto your back. I whimpered, but you were back nearly instantly, and I heard the distinctive snap of the lubricant cap opening. “Shit! this is cold,” you hissed, and I felt you move.

You wrapped your legs around mine, pressing them together, then your hand slid cool and wet between my legs, at the apex of my thighs. I gasped and flinched a little, then sighed as your cock slid where your hand had been, stroking. Your hand came around, still wet with lube, and grasped my cock again, and I was pinned between the two sensations. I loved the feeling of you rubbing against my still-sensitive hole, and couldn’t help moaning, pushing back into you, then forward into your fist.

“Oh, god, love, yes. Slow down a bit,” as I bucked, and I slowed, panting, easing back, feeling the slide of the lubricant, the touch of your hand. “There you go,” you said softly. “Now just relax, let me. Mmm, see how little you can move.”

I whimpered again, but tried my best to remain still. My hands clutched the sheets. You moved again, tortuously slow, sliding slick between my legs and up my cock, setting the pace and rhythm. Your right hand came up to stroke my chest, and you teased at my nipple with your fingertips. I couldn’t help it, John; I cried out again, the tingling rush of sensation prickling over my skin, my nipple hardening immediately between your fingers, sending a spark directly to my groin. I writhed against you, grabbing backwards, wanting to feel it all, wanting you, my hands urging your hips to thrust more quickly.

“God, Sherlock, I woke up so hard for you, wanting you, wanting my hands on you.” You let go of my cock and grabbed my hips, hard, biting my shoulder and thrusting faster. I slid my hands over yours, lacing our fingers together,  and you groaned, just a little, breathy. “I wanted to be inside you again. On you and in you.” You slowed again, dropping your forehead to my shoulder. “Too soon, don’t want to hurt you. This is nice.” Your hands slackened as you slowed down, and you kissed where your forehead had been. “I want to see you, though. Want to see your eyes.”

“Yes.” I turned in your arms, wanting that different contact, the feel of your lips on mine, wanting our tongues twining as our fingers had been doing. As we faced each other I could finally see your smile, the depths of your eyes, and I clung to you as closely as I could while still seeing your face.

“That’s better.” You kissed me, and suddenly it was real, all that we had done and said in the past day and a half. I was in your arms, your tongue was in my mouth, and the feeling of well-being that washed through me was one that I couldn’t recall ever having before.

John Watson, you have conquered me. I am absolutely helpless. I had thought — hoped, really, a tenuous and despairing hope — that someday you might feel toward me something of what I have felt for you for so long. I never imagined that you had been feeling the same, or that you could hide it from me so remarkably well. My John. You are an eternal surprise. I look forward to learning all the new ways you will be unpredictable to me.  In the meantime, I will recall being awash in you, so overwhelmed by your presence that I could do nothing but wind myself around you, breathing your name again.

"John." For all the many times I had said it, each time now was new, because I could say it aloud the way I had said it in my head for so long — with love, and desire, and longing. And your response to this new freedom of mine seemed to be ever more aggressive displays of possessiveness and dominance. I would have to say it more often. When I said it this time, you threaded your strong fingers in my hair and pulled my head back, bit my Adam's apple and sucked a love-bite into my neck. I melted still more against you, trusting you, wanting this. Wanting the feeling of surrender I felt when you took control.

"God, love," you whispered, a hint of awe in your voice. "I can feel it when you do that — when you go limp, when you let me take over." You bit my neck again, tonguing the mark you'd made, the hand in my hair twisting harder. "It makes me want to bite harder, mark you, god. Own you." I whimpered, and you thrust against me, rubbing. "Put your hands behind you, love."

I hastened to comply, and you took both my wrists in your free hand, pinning them at the small of my back. Marvelous. That sense of well-being stole through me again, and I arched lazily against you, enjoying the feeling of being held, commanded. I heard your breath catch, and the hand in my hair loosened, trailing down my neck to my chest, tweaking a nipple to make me gasp. Your hand moved lower still, and curled around my still-stiff cock. I felt you let go for a moment, then you came back with more lubricant. When you grasped me your hand slid, sending a jolt of sensation up my spine. I gasped, and groaned as I felt your cock align with mine, sliding against me and your own hand, all heat and velvet-soft skin. You thrust and twisted and pulled, and the feel of our cocks gliding together sent sparks straight into my brain, making my back arch and my skin shiver.

"I love making you like this," you breathed against my neck. "I love watching you fall apart for me. Watching your face go soft and your eyes close." You tightened your hand around my wrists, around our cocks, and I whimpered. "Watching you move, like you can't control yourself." I writhed again, the sound of your voice and the feel of your hands overwhelming me, overtaking me. It was true — I seemed to lose all control with you, like this, in your arms, your bed — I am so controlled elsewhere, so controlling at times, and this stark contrast is not lost on me. I know it is my trust in you that allows this surrender; from the very start, I trusted you with my life. I trust you now, completely, with my body and my heart.

"John," I said again, my voice gravelly with need, more desperate now, and you took my mouth again in a kiss, slow and sweet, silencing me with your clever tongue. I groaned into you, pressing against you as best I could between your hands, and you gasped and shuddered. I felt your hand movements become more haphazard, and your cock stiffened further against mine. I strained closer still, chasing your mouth, wanting you, god, wanting your hands and your tongue and your voice, all at once.

Your breathing quickened and you cried out against my lips, "Oh god, Sherlock, I can't — I'm gonna — oh god, I love you, I love you," and you kissed me again, deeply, rolling and pinning me to the bed beneath you as you came, hot and slick, thrusting against me. I arched up into you as best I could, caught under your weight, by my own arms underneath me, by the sheer joy of being with you.

You subsided against me at last, with a sigh, letting yourself down slowly and nuzzling my neck, easing one of my arms out from beneath me and rolling me slightly, letting me release the other myself. Your hand came up to cup my cheek, and you scratched your nails lightly against the line of my cheekbone, feeling the stubble. I smiled against your hand, turned my head and bit your thumb, just a little. I heard your breath catch again, and you laughed, still a bit breathless.

“Towel,” you said, and leaned away, reaching for it where it had fallen next to the bed. I watched you, your lean muscles flexing as you stretched and twisted. The lamp shone on the tawny hairs on your skin, limning you in light and making my breath catch again. You came back to me, smiling, and used the cleaner parts of the towel to rub us both down. I loved watching you, loved being able to watch, unabashed; glorious freedom. You, so practical and kind, knowing my fastidious nature so well, were calm and methodical and brilliant, and quickly dropped the towel to the floor again. I had a moment of wondering what was next, then you slid against me again, purpose in your dark eyes.

“I want to watch you come now,” you said. My heart, which had barely slowed, thumped harder still. “I want to take you in my mouth, and suck you, and watch you come.” I could practically feel my eyes roll back in my head as you grasped my still-hard cock again and stroked, smooth and sure.

“John,” I managed on a strangled gasp. “Condom.”

You smiled ruefully. “I know. Forgot that last time, in the shower, didn’t we.” You kissed me softly, a chaste contrast to the firm twisting movements of your fingers. “I am sorry.”

“No,” I said, almost fierce. “Don’t be.” I kissed you back, another soft kiss, affirming, declaring. I took a deep breath, gathering my wits from where you’d strewn them, stilling your hand with my own.  “I know you’re clean; you’ve been tested at the clinic since you were last active. I trust you.” Your eyes held mine, a question there. “I’m more of a risk, given my — background. My results should be in in a few days.” You quirked a surprised eyebrow; I smiled. “I had the blood drawn while I was in hospital. It seemed efficient.” I rolled my eyes. “Also, my brother found out and had the labs expedited. Hence the short return time.”

You chuckled and nipped my bottom lip. “I’ll thank him next time he comes by.”

“Oh, don’t, he’s insufferable enough already. Now, can we please stop talking about him and return to more pertinent matters? _Oh,_ ” and you were moving again, curling and sliding your fingers, and I was sliding under again, under your warm caress, under the bliss of your regard, the absolute perfection of your touch.

Your body moved, hand keeping its rhythm, and I heard the crinkle of the foil wrapper as you found the condom. You paused a moment, then said softly, “Slide up on the pillows, love.  That way we can both watch.” I slid until my head and shoulders were upright, squirming, both of us impatient.

I lay back, then, and watched as you lay between my thighs, looking up at me. God, John, your face — I want you, always, and to see that desire reflected in your eyes — your hands shook as you dabbed on a bit of lubricant and rolled the condom down my length.

“God, I have wanted this for so long,” you sighed, resting your head on my thigh and nuzzling into me. Your hand crept up to fondle me, cupping my testicles gently, rolling them between your fingers. “Thought about this so much, about your face, what you’d look like. What you’d taste like.” Your smile was almost sly. “Now I know, a bit. Later, I’ll know it all.” Your tongue came out, just touched the head, and my cock jumped. You chuckled, and sighed, and grasped the root and then your mouth was on me, over me, and you were using your tongue and I cried out, writhing, grasping the bedclothes desperately to keep my hips from jolting up. Your mouth, god, so hot, your hands everywhere, your tongue licking and sucking and it seemed like only seconds before I was screaming again, screaming your name as I came, watching you watching me.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	44. 20 March (entry 5)

I do not think that I will ever tire of waking in your arms.

There you were, still asleep, your strength tempered by exhaustion, but still holding lightly onto me. I love watching you sleep, John. Your face just then was open, mobile; I could almost guess your dreams from the expressions that flitted across it.

You stirred slightly; you are a light sleeper, and any disturbance tends to wake you. I have tried to be a considerate flatmate in the past, keeping noise levels to a minimum when I know you are sleeping. The exception is when I know from the noises that come from your room that you are in the midst of a nightmare. Then, I very deliberately get out my violin and play.

I know that you can hear the notes in your dream state, and from early in our unusual partnership I sensed that my playing helped you to calm yourself and drift back into normal sleep. And on those nights when you woke, panting, and I imagined that you sweated and clutched your bedclothes with both hands, attempting to stave off the horrors in your head, I played for you still. All your favorites —the melodies and sometimes the recognizable harmonies from songs by the Beatles and The Who, the Rolling Stones, even the Motown tunes that you sometimes listen to for hours. You've never acknowledged my playing this music, and I wonder if it is so deeply ingrained in your subconscious that you are unaware that I am playing, that I am trying to bring you back, bring you some comfort in the barren and too-populous landscape of your imagination.

I watched you, in those few moments before you woke, and I felt as if this new thing between us was still asleep, still not completely awake to its potential. I felt that promise as if I was looking out on a landscape that stretched out before me, close and enduring, infinite and new. An incredibly stale conceit, I realize, but so fresh to me that I couldn't help but think of it with amazement. Not tedium, not boredom, but infinite singularity and delight — you have never failed to captivate and surprise me, and the idea that I can now possess this — you — us — is astonishing and somehow inevitable.

I watched as you stirred, and stretched, and woke; I watched as your eyes opened to the full light of day, and to the phenomenon of us, together. I watched, John, as your face transformed from soft to blazing bright, your smile assuring me with its joy that indeed you feel as I do: promise fulfilled.

You rolled and kissed me, just a brush of your lips against mine, then lay back with a larger stretch and a sigh, your hand lingering on my cheek.

“Good morning. I suppose it’s a proper morning now.” You grinned, and I squirmed a little closer, wanting more contact. Your arm snaked under me and pulled me close; perfect: my head on your shoulder, your lips on my hair. So comfortable, as if we’d done it a thousand times. Still thrilling.

“No texts? No calls?” you murmured, fingers idly playing with the curls over my ear.

I snorted gently, raised an unseen eyebrow. “I turned our phones off last night.”

Your chest shook with a giggle. “Well done.”

I smiled against you. “No reason to have them on. I wanted — “ I stopped. Your hand tangled in my hair, tugging gently. “I didn’t want any interruptions. We’ve had enough of those, John.”

“Yes, indeed,” you murmured, your arm tightening. “The world can wait a bit, today.”

“Just a bit.” My smile seemed permanent; my cheeks were beginning to feel it. Have I smiled this much in my life before? I must have, as a young child, but those were regimented out of me soon enough. Now, I am free to express myself as I wish; I wonder, will my habitual expression soften, become more accessible, now that we have claimed each other?

I placed a palm flat on your chest, flexing my fingers slightly, feeling the give of your skin and muscle. “John...” I hesitated, wondering where to begin.

“Yes, love.” Your fingers combed through my hair again, and I nearly lost my train of thought. So soothing, so intimate; your fingertips strike the perfect balance between stimulus and caress.

“You said you — that you had — “ I stopped, frustrated. Words weren’t coming. “We were in the ambulance together, and you said that you — I believe you said that you were going to tell me what you — wrote.” I swallowed, for some reason suddenly anxious. “What did you mean?”

You paused, taking a breath and letting it out. It seemed as if you were going to speak; you stopped, then began again.

“Yeah, about that. I told you I’d read your journal.” You pressed another kiss to the top of my head. “I wrote in it, as well, like I said. I...want you to read what I wrote. It’ll explain a lot, I think.”

I raised my head, frowning slightly. “You...wrote in my journal? Why? I don’t understand.”

Your arms tightened. “I found it, while I was looking for, you know, clues, to where you might have gone. I read — I read the first page, and god, Sherlock.” I could feel your stiffening cock pressed against my thigh. “I’ve been wanting you for so long, and to read that, god, when I thought I might have lost you — it was terrifying, and awful, and bloody brilliant. I felt as if I had to — reply, somehow, to talk to you even though you weren’t here — like you’ve always done to me.”

You unwound yourself from me, scooting down in the bed until we were face to face. You touched my cheek again and looked at me, and it was as if you could never look enough, as if my face was all you ever wanted to see. God, John.

“I read the first few entries, and all I could think about was the time we’d wasted, all that time we could have been together, like this.” Your smile was tender, open. “I was desperate to see you — find you — tell you how I felt about you. I needed to get those thoughts on the page, and — why not? It seemed — right. Almost like I was, you know, meant to find the journal.”

I touched your face, so familiar and loved. “You always were,” I whispered, and swallowed. “I was going to tell you — I couldn’t live like that any longer. I was going to tell you how I — how I felt — and hope that at least our friendship would survive, that you wouldn’t think too much less of me, that you could still stand to be around me when you knew I —”

“Ah, Sherlock.” You took my face in your hands and kissed me, sweet and slow, telling me with your touch that I no longer had anything to fear. Glorious. “Neither of us has to have those thoughts any more.” Your eyes crinkled again in a smile, then you pulled away and sat up. “All right, off for a quick piss and clean up — don’t move. Unless you need to?”

I shook my head. I wanted to stay there, waiting for you, in your bed. You squeezed my hand, then thundered down the stairs to the bathroom.

I lay there, cocooned again in our lingering warmth, feeling rested and sated and loved. It was heady, strange, wonderful — I wasn’t used to it, and I adored the feeling of incredulity it sparked in me. Hard to believe, yet every word and action indicated one conclusion: we are in love. I was giddy with the thought that you were mine, at last.

I let my eyes wander idly around the room, noting the subtle differences since last time I’d been here, days ago. Wardrobe door slightly ajar; bedside table holding paracetamol, glass of stale water, lamp (still on), and my journal.

_Our_ journal.

I rolled, wincing a bit, and reached out a tentative hand, hovering, then choosing the paracetamol. It had been more than enough time since my last dose to take more. I took two capsules with a sip of the water still in the glass; good. I felt better, if still a bit sore; I smiled to myself, thinking the soreness was not all from the kidnapping and binding. I stretched, feeling my shoulders loosen, feeling the results of our...lovemaking? Love, John. It truly was. We made love. We made it, here, between us, recognized it, claimed it, exulted in it with bodies and hearts and minds. I lay there, in your bed, stunned at the realization, my skin suddenly flushed and sensitive, wanting you again. I reached again and took up the journal.

Ah. There you were.

I heard you, slow progress up the stairs — you were holding something; I guessed a tray, with water, perhaps tea and some fruit. Nothing you had to clatter about to prepare; I would have heard you. I sat up, ready to see you, pushing the pillows upright against the headboard. Tea, more water, two apples, and my toothbrush. Oh. Perfect. You set the tray down beside me on the bed, moved the tea and water to the nightstand.

“Here.” You handed me the toothbrush as you turned. “Thanks for waiting, love.” You indicated the journal with your chin. “I’m glad to be here while you read.” I’m glad I waited, too. Your smile lights your eyes, John, your smile for me; I feel it all over me, like a blanket, like your hands. You must have read it in my face, for you moved the tray again and slid in beside me, under the covers. “Brush, then I’ll read over your shoulder. Jesus, it’s all a blur — I wonder what I wrote?” You giggled, and blushed a little — adorable. “Some of it’s quite, ah, graphic, I expect. Me, in your bed, and all.”

I dutifully brushed, rinsed, and spat, then turned to the journal again.

I knew what I had written, of course, so I turned the pages in a blur until I found your handwriting, just a bit, on one page. My hands were shaking as I smoothed the pages flat to read. God, here we are — here we begin.

And as I read your words, and my heart was opened further — god, you have butterflied me wide open, John — I breathed faster, and my heart pounded open in my chest, and we leaned hard against each other, not precisely afraid but oh, nervous, anxious. This presentation to each other of all we were, are, could become, inexorably, shakes me to my bones. How could I think this was a good idea? How could I _not_ have you read this, and read your entries in turn? We are completely bared to one another; there is almost nothing that is secret, at least regarding our feelings.

In that time, as I read and every layer of illusion was peeled away, I wanted so badly to reply to you — but at the same time, I wanted to race ahead, reading, knowing you as deeply as I could through your written actions during those difficult days. And so, I read until the end, where you left one last heartfelt note — whatever happened between us, you would stay with me. My heart — god, John, my heart was so full I couldn’t speak. I unclipped my pen from the journal, instead, and wrote. Left my unsteady hand on the page, tilted it so you could read what little there was.

You took the journal from me, gently, without looking at me; you slowly scratched a few words, then, with head still lowered, handed it back.

“Write it here if you can’t — can’t.” God, John, so much expressed in those few words — hope, and fear, and longing and love and desperation — what kind of person would I be to leave you in that state? Did you really, even for an instant, after our indescribably blissful night together, believe that I would — that I _could_ — turn away from you again?

Slowly, I wrote. I gave myself to you, with those few words, and I asked for your absolution, your love — I asked for you to turn to me, again, and give yourself to me.

I passed the journal back to you, and I waited. I watched as you read; I watched the blood come up again in your face, tingeing your cheeks, flushing your lips as pink as the tip of your tongue that darted out to wet your bottom lip.

You turned, finally, setting the journal aside. You flipped the duvet back and straddled my lap, sliding up against me; you put your hands in my hair, tipped my head back, and kissed me. Your mouth on mine — god, John. I clung to you, and we kissed, and everything coalesced into a new clarity.

When the kiss ended, after a long, perfect time, you rested your forehead against mine and we breathed together. My eyes were closed, but I could feel you, relaxed against me, your fingers doing lovely things in my hair. At last I opened my eyes, wanting to see you.

“John.”

“Sherlock.” You smiled.

I took a deep breath.

“I love you.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All my love forever and always to Nichellen (perfect whip-hand!), lestradesexwife, a_xmasmurder, Letha, Evith Winter Grey (wintergrey), cousincecilycardew, and Kryptaria (darling!!) for not only betaing but hand-holding and OMGing and all the other fun stuff. Go read their work; it's fantastic!
> 
> Also, I'm planning to put this up at about a chapter a day. Feel free to poke the author if she fails to deliver when you think she should.
> 
> Comments are always gold! And as always, thank you so much for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for reluctantabandon's "Testimony"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029863) by [fiorinda_chancellor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorinda_chancellor/pseuds/fiorinda_chancellor)




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